Chosen for More
by AGriffinWriter
Summary: What should have happened after "I love you." "No you don't, but thanks for saying it." AU Season 8 that starts at the end of BtVS:Chosen. Includes flashbacks to "the blackout" in Buffy's basement on the night before the Battle of the Hellmouth. I shamelessly ship Spike/Buffy and think they deserve a happily ever after, which I thoroughly provide in Chapters 6-11. To be continued..
1. Chapter 1: Can We Rest Now?

**Chapter 1: "Can We Rest Now?"**

**_Or_** **"How 'BtVS:Chosen' Should Have Ended"**

**All rights belong to Joss Whedon (and unfortunately to the networks that cancel his shows)**

**Opening italics segment is from the script of 'Chosen'.**

* * *

_His hand is held up, frozen in his rictus of revelatory pain. Buffy takes her own hand, interlocks it with his. A moment, and both hands burst into flames._

_We hold close on the two of them, ignoring the flames, looking at each other._

_BUFFY_

_I love you._

_A moment. He smiles kindly._

_SPIKE_

_No you don't. But thanks for saying it._

* * *

Buffy stands immobile, the tears in her eyes breaking free of her lashes and coursing down her cheeks. She stares at the flames engulfing her hand, entwined with Spike's. There's no pain in the fire, just warmth and trust and belonging.

"Spike . . ."

A large chunk of ceiling falls in behind them, and Buffy turns instinctively at the crashing sound it makes. Her fingers slip from between Spike's burning ones.

"It's your world up there. Now GO!" he urges, his smile twitching with pain from the amulet's burning power radiating through him. "I wanna see how it ends."

Buffy looks past Spike to the stairs, but then stares back into his face, shaking her head, more tears falling free. She grasps his arm around the wrist, still immune to any damage from the flames.

"No, Spike . . ."

His eyes plead with her, desperately hoping she will leave him, save herself - but at the same time wondering if this is how they both want it to end.

"Buffy . . ."

"Come on, B! Let's blow this joint!" Faith calls down from the floor above. "The whole place is comin' down!"

They hear her retreating footsteps on the floor above, but still Buffy does not follow.

"I won't go without you, Spike. I love you."

Despite his pain, a fulfilled sort-of joy appears in his eyes as he perhaps dares to believe that her words might be true.

"Nothin' you can do, luv. I'm burnin' up." He lets out a strained laugh. "Mr. and Mrs. Big Pile of Dust . . ."

"I won't leave you!"

"You've got to. Your Scooby mates need you."

Avoiding the amulet's radiant beam, Buffy drops the Slayer's scythe to the floor, threads her arms around Spike's waist, and embraces him tightly. She feels the amulet's heat pulsing through him, scorching him from the inside out, his very soul aflame.

"_You_ need me more," she whispers against his blazing shoulder.

"Buffy . . . Oh, Buffy . . ." Spike gasps as the amulet's revolving rays glow even more brilliantly, filling even the most distant corners of the vast cavern with light. "You . . . you really love me?"

"I do," she insists. "I love you, Spike. I love you, William. I love you-"

"Arrgh!"

The golden beams of soul-enhanced sunlight blaze fiercely, and Spike grits his teeth, cutting short his sudden groan.

"Spike!" Buffy gasps. She keeps her arms tight around him even though her skin seems to be singeing through her sleeves. "You don't have to be brave for me, Spike," she tells him, fighting more tears.

"Comes with . . . the job description," he pants, his strained voice barely audible beneath the clamor of falling rock all around them. "Champion . . . your champion . . ."

The rays emanating from the amulet whirl throughout the cave and then suddenly contract, re-absorbing into the crystal hanging from Spike's neck. The force of it hurls him and Buffy backwards out of the sunlit circle and into the bottom of the stairwell. They hit the floor together, a tangle of black leather and blonde hair. Buffy sits up first, already aware that the warmth of Spike's body is reacclimatizing to its usual room-temperature.

"Spike!"

"Buffy, I've . . . I've done it." His eyes rove the little of the cavern that they can see amidst all the dust and crumbling rock. "_We've_ done it. Beat the buggers . . ."

He lifts one hand to the smoking amulet and recoils as soon as his fingers touch it, wincing.

"Should've known Peaches's party favor wasn't all shiny for nothing," he grins cheekily at Buffy, but then his smile vanishes as the platform on which they're lying shudders. Though the amulet's rays no longer burn through the layers of stone, the cavern's infrastructure is clearly compromised, continuing to crumble all around them.

"Please go now, pet," Spike begs. "Can't go out knowin' I took you with me."

"What? Why can't you-?"

"I . . . can't stand. Too drained. Go on, love. For me."

"I won't go! I'm staying! I love you!"

"Buffy-"

With a vicious rumble, the staircase explodes in a shower of debris. Spike grips Buffy around the shoulders and rolls towards the still-intact opposite wall as rubble cascades down on them. He takes the brunt of it, stones striking his back, legs, and head, shielding Buffy with his arms and body. She clings to the lapels of his leather duster, suddenly gasping as the familiar pressure of his body on hers reawakens memories she had long ago suppressed. Spike gives the stone ceiling above them a skeptical glance.

"If that comes down on us, we're both dead, good and proper!" he shouts over the continuing roar.

Buffy follows his gaze, desperately hoping that the others have fled the school property.

* * *

"Move it!" Faith screams at the group running ahead of her as they tear down the school hallways, the tile floors collapsing behind their feet. Kennedy and Dawn support Willow's exhausted form, and the witch glances past the dark slayer to the dusty entrance of what remains of the Hellmouth.

"Buffy! Where's Buffy?" Willow calls to her, but Faith waves her forward, urging them to run faster. Panic in her brown eyes, Dawn grabs Xander's arm as he looks around wildly for Anya, unable to see her half-buried body several yards away.

"Come on, Xander!"

"Anya! ANYA!" he cries, as Faith and one of the newly-endowed Slayers pulls a cowering Andrew out of a corner and yanks him along behind her.

Stumbling on debris, they emerge from the school building and charge for the bus. Giles and the remaining Potentials-turned-Slayers are already inside, most of them nursing wounds of varying severity.

"Go! Go! Go!" Faith screams at whoever is in the driver's seat as she shoves Willow and Xander up through the wheelchair-access door and into the back to the bus. Robin slams down the gas pedal and wrests the wheel hard left, steering the bus toward the parking lot exit and out onto the deserted Sunnydale streets.

"Buffy?" Giles asks, his eyes begging the recent occupants for news.

"She didn't follow me," Faith pants, falling to the floor of the bus and wheezing, "She stayed."

"With Spike," Dawn whispers, realizing the truth, a tone of betrayal in her voice. Willow hears it and crawls across the floor of the rattling bus to pull the teenager into a tight hug.

"She'll be okay, sweetie," the witch promises, her own throat choking up. "And . . . and if not," she adds with a forced laugh, "we can always bring her back, right?"

* * *

"Hold on!" Spike roars as the floor gives away and he and Buffy slide deeper into the crumbling remains of the Hellmouth. Buffy throws out her arm as they tumble down, locks her fingers around the Slayer scythe, and plunges it into the wall, driving the point at least a foot deep.

With a jolt, they hang suspended, anchored to the side of the cavern by the ancient weapon. They swing in mid-air and then slam back against the cliff face. Somehow, Spike still manages to keep Buffy protected from the pieces of mountain still striking at them from every direction. She hears him breathing in hissing gasps and knows that each one is a sign of pain.

"Are you still burning?!" she demands in a concerned yell, glancing up through the dust at the circular cut-out in the ceiling where the amulet had blasted through to the surface. More chunks of the cavern roof are missing now, and noon sunlight bathes them.

"Not much. Don't know. Maybe," he answers, gasping out the words and raising his eyebrows in half-sarcastic uncertainty. "Could be the Gem of Amara has a cousin . . ."

With a _groan_, the chunk of wall in which the scythe is buried breaks off the cliff face, sending the two of them falling down another twenty feet. Spike hits the ground first, and Buffy hears a horrible crunching _snap_ just before she drops down on him. He crumples, cushioning her landing.

"Spike! You're hurt!"

He shakes his head, but his scrunched-up eyes and tormented face say otherwise. Blood is trickling from a cut on his ear, and scratches riddle his duster.

"Shelter . . ." he groans, his eyes skimming the closest cavern wall for any crevices big enough for them to hide in. The Hellmouth, the school, the _whole valley_ is tumbling down on them, piece by piece.

"Right . . . shelter . . . there!"

About fifteen feet to their left is a cleft in the rock face, an opening about 3ft-square. Tucking the scythe under one arm, Buffy takes the collar of Spike's duster in both hands, pulls him across the floor, and shoves his torso through the entrance.

"Easy with the manhandling, luv," he snorts through gritted teeth. "Can't see how deep this thing is, but bloody little choice left!"

* * *

Far above them, the school bus flees Sunnydale, barely making it outside the city limits before the entire valley caves in, a deep crater, the center black and void. With squealing brakes, the bus comes to a shaky halt on the deserted highway.

Kennedy is the first to interrupt the dark silence that begins to coat the survivors, asking Vi about the girls' injuries and shaking open a few more First Aid boxes. Xander and Andrew exchange a few words, honoring Anya's last moments. Dawn is immobile, her face pressed against the glass on the bus's back door.

Slowly, they all exit the van - Dawn, Giles, Xander, Willow, Andrew, Kennedy, and the uninjured Potentials-turned-Slayers - leaving Faith and Vi to treat Robin and the rest of the wounded. At the very edge of the sunken city outskirts, a tacky sign reading "Welcome to Sunnydale" creaks . . . then tips back into the abyss with a _clang_.

Dawn stands between Willow and Giles, her hands balled into tight fists, her face fixed on the ruins of the only world she has ever known.

"Dawnie?" Willow murmurs, but instantly regrets that she has spoken. Her own voice still trembles, trying to accept the reality that Buffy is gone.

With a tearful gasp, Dawn takes a few unsteady steps toward the colossal crater.

"Buffy!" she screams, staring into the black hole. "BUFFY!"

Her cry shatters them, reminds them all of the voids they feel for the missing faces. Xander leans over onto his knees, mourning for Anya with heavy sobs, tears issuing from beneath both patch and eyelid. Gentle hands surround his shoulders: Willow, knowing from experience that the only thing that will bring comfort to her lifelong best friend is time. Andrew stands slack-jawed at the ruin they barely escaped, wondering why _he_ has managed to survive when those who surely deserve it better have not.

Once more Dawn shouts Buffy's name into the settling dust, then she turns and directs her heaving cries into Giles' shoulder. Gently supporting Dawn, the Watcher gazes in silence at the collapsed town, not even daring to hope that Buffy has survived.

* * *

Deep in the remains of the Hellmouth, Buffy and Spike crawl on their hands and knees into the coffin-like fissure until they're inside it completely, protected from the onslaught of falling rock and soil. The miniature cave's ceiling seems firm enough, but for added stability Buffy props the Slayer scythe up vertically so it acts as a brace.

"Okay. Where are you hurt?" she asks Spike. In the dimness of the tiny cave, she feels her head brush the ceiling as she attempts to sit up and look him over.

"Here and there," he winces. "At least one ankle's broken, I s'pect. I'll mend." He reaches out in the semi-darkness for her hand, and she feels his many burns and blisters when his fingers find hers. "What about you, luv? All your bits still there?"

He's eyeing the cut in her stomach with concern, but for some odd reason Buffy feels no pain from the wound that nearly took her life. Perhaps the scythe has some kind of Slayer rejuvenation/healing abilities too.

"I'm fine."

"_Really_ fine or _girly-talk_ fine?" he insists. "I know they're different. Spent a whole summer babysitting Dawn once."

His eyes lock on hers, and in the deep blue orbs Buffy sees the painful memories he still holds, of the summer when she was dead.

"No, I'm not hurt."

He smiles in relief, closes his fingers around her own, and cautiously draws her hand against his chest.

"Guess we should wait out the apocalypse, eh, pet? There'll be a hell of a lot of rubble to dig through come nightfall. We can rest now."

Looking into his smile, Buffy remembers similar words spoken in a dark church - his body willingly pressed against a cross, steam issuing from his flesh, the guilt of his newly-acquired soul oppressing him. "_Can we rest now, Buffy? Can we rest?_"

"Yeah," she agrees. "We can rest now. We saved the world, _again_."

Adjusting her legs so that they lie beside his, she curls up in his arms like she did on the night in the strange house - the Best Night of Their Lives - enfolded in his embrace with her cheek against his silent, lukewarm chest. With one thumb, she brushes the lapel of his leather duster, and he responds with a tender kiss to the top of her head, only moments before he blacks out, his body sagging slightly in her hands. A final boulder slides into place, trapping the Slayer and her Champion in their living tomb.

_[End of Episode]_


	2. Chapter 2: Buried

***Thank you everyone who reviewed chapter 1! Your feedback is so encouraging to me. I don't know how frequently I'll be able to update this due to IRL responsibilities and being a perfectionist when it comes to my writing, but I'll do my best not to leave you hanging for too long. Any suggestions, questions, or requests are always welcome!***

**If you missed part 1, this is my AU of how 'Chosen' should have ended. Buffy remains with Spike as the Hellmouth crumbles, and they find shelter deep in the cavern, buried under miles of debris. Flashbacks sections are in** _italics_**.**

**All rights belong to Joss Whedon (and unfortunately to the networks that cancel his shows)**

* * *

**Chapter 2: "Buried" (Season 8, Episode 1, Acts I-II)**

Night has fallen over the ruins of Sunnydale. The school bus full of survivors creaks along the state highway to an abandoned gas station, its only inhabitants a family of raccoons that scurry away when Faith and Andrew hop out of the bus. Followed by Vi and Kennedy, they double-check that no cashier is left to man the outpost, and then one-by-one Faith puts her foot through the screens of the four vending machines. Their arms full of chip bags, peanuts, Moon Pies, and soda cans, the scavengers return to the bus and distribute the unhealthy rations.

"Fresh out of donuts and coffee," Kennedy apologizes as she hands a Sprite can to Willow. "How do you feel?"

"All mojo hangover-y, but in a good way, ya'know?" she grins tiredly at her girlfriend. "You?

"Antsy. It'll take a while to get used to all this power humming in me." She looks at her own hands, flexing and opening her fingers. "You're really somethin', Red. No one else could have done what you did."

They exchange a smile, but Willow's happiness fades as she casts a glance at the other residents of the school bus. She cannot help but feel the empty places, seats that should be filled with friends and sort-of-enemies-turned-allies. Half a dozen of the girls who had lived in her house and shared everything from hair products to cereal are now buried in the crater. And Spike. And Anya. And Buffy.

Willow shakes her head, determined to stay strong, to guide the new Slayers as Buffy would have done. Standing up, she walks to where Giles sits in the back row of seats.

"How's morale, Giles?"

The Watcher removes his glasses but just holds them between his hands, too tired or too discouraged to perform his usual lens-cleaning ceremony.

"We should press on. Several of the girls' conditions are critical. They need more medical attention than we can provide."

His voice is lifeless, saturated with grief.

"Faith called Angel to tell him we were coming," Andrew comments helpfully, peeking over the seat in the row ahead of Giles. "He'll have medical supplies ready for us."

"Good. Very good." He seems lost in his own mind, only half aware of Willow and Andrew. "We should not tarry here."

Though he doesn't say it, Willow can tell exactly what he's thinking, why he sees no point in lingering near their former home: there is nothing . . . _no one_ . . . left there. He has lost hope of ever seeing his Slayer again. Like so many Watchers, their relationship has ended with the death of the girl he worked so hard to train, teach, and protect. He has failed her.

"Giles . . . what about a locator spell?" Willow asks tentatively. "If I try to-?"

"No, absolutely not," Giles cuts her words short. "I forbid it, Willow. Even if your powers were not undoubtedly exhausted, you should not be attempting any magic concerning the Hellmouth until we are quite certain The First holds no remaining sway over that place."

"But Giles . . ."

"I won't hear another word on this matter. We must . . . concentrate on the present, tend to the girls." His voice quavers.

"He's right, Will," adds Kennedy, rubbing Willow's shoulder with one hand. "You've got to rest up. We can look for Buffy when we're sure the coast is clear."

"Hate to spoil the mood, Red, but what're you expectin' to find even if you do cook up some bibbidy-bobbidy-boo?" Faith butts in. "Face it. B had a mountain fall in on her, and that's _if_ she didn't get cooked to a crisp with Blondie first."

"Thanks, Faith," says Xander from a nearby row, speaking for the first time that evening. With Dawn asleep on one of his knees, Xander eyes them all with a face that has seemed to age ten years since the morning. "That's what we count on you for. You really know how to bring the joy-killing."

* * *

[_The previous evening, the night before the Battle of the Hellmouth_]

_He anxiously watches her feet appear on the stairs, slow and steady, as though she is coming to reprimand him for some misdemeanor. She sees him lay the amulet beside the bed as he stands with that nervous, sort-of humble look in his eyes, the "I know I'm not good enough for you but I love you so much it kills me" look. And she wonders if her face has the exact same expression on it._

_For a moment they stand there, facing one another, seemingly safe and invulnerable as long as they are on opposite sides of the room, both knowing that the moment one of them takes a step toward the other . . . only the End of the World will be able to tear them apart._

_Spike's lip trembles, barely holding back the words his frozen heart wants to scream: I love you, Buffy. I know you'll never love me back, but I love you. I'll do anything you want. Tell me to drive a stake through my own chest, I'd do it in an instant. I'm yours, your willing slave, even if that's all you'll ever want from me. I love you._

_Tears bead up in Buffy's eyes as she too silently battles her feelings: Spike, I once said I could never trust you . . . but that's changed so much this year. I've used you so much, been so cruel, but through it all you've been . . . faithful, my anchor point. You were willing to undergo the Demon Trials and earn your soul back, and all I've done to repay you is mock you. How can you still love me?_

_"Night's not getting any younger, luv," Spike chuckles hollowly._

_Buffy nods but still doesn't move except for the increasing tears in her eyes. She realizes Spike can see them as his forehead crinkles in concern._

_"Buffy . . . luv . . ."_

_"Spike . . . William . . . hold me," she whispers at last, her voice breaking._

_They meet in the center of the room, crossing it so quickly that they nearly fly into each other's arms. Buffy buries her face in Spike's chest, and he encases her in a gentle embrace even though he longs to squeeze his arms tight around her and weep himself. For now he only places one hand at the small of her back and the other against her golden hair, smoothing the loose strands. He inhales the sweet scent of her neck and is not tempted, only wishing to be hers, her man, her monster._

_"Tell me you love me," Buffy sobs quietly, wondering even as she speaks if he will remember the last time she demanded to hear those words from him, if he will expect the same ending as that previous conversation - the tangling limbs, still half-dressed, clutching, needing. And she wants it, wants him, craves his touch . . . and knows it's wrong._

_His tender arms tighten just slightly as he whispers into her hair. "I love you, Buffy Summers. You know I do."_

_"Tell me you want me."_

_"I always want you, luv," he half-chokes, and Buffy can't tell if the new drop of moisture on her cheek is her tear or his. "That's the problem, in't it? I'll love when you want to feel loved, I'll give when you want to take. You know I'll do anything for you."_

_Anything . . . even stoop to her level, to let the deep love in his heart be bent and molded into just a physical expression, to mask the earnest feelings in reckless passion, a hunt to feel alive. Buffy hears the mix of willingness and hesitation in his voice, the painful reminder that he truly will do whatever she asks in his attempts to prove his love, even go through with something that both of them would only regret later._

_ "Spike . . . is it wrong of me . . . to still want you like that?" she asks remorsefully._

_"Like what, luv?" His voice is unsteady, hovering between hope and defeat, wondering if he's being betrayed again._

_"To love me when I . . . when I order you to."_

_His arms still around her, Spike inhales sharply, tilting his chin up so that his tears flow down his own cheeks and neck instead of dripping onto her shirt._

_"I'll sodding love you whether you order me to or not, thanks" he quips, faking a casual tone to hide the searing in his heart. "Not like I haven't tried _not_ loving you."_

_"I know. I'm so sorry for using you, Spike. I took advantage of _you_ long before . . . you know."_

_They both stiffen slightly as the memory hangs between them, the night when Spike had stormed into her bathroom and tried to make her love him, force himself on her. Living and dead, it's the worst memory of both of their lives._

_"I don't put one bit of blame on you, pet," Spike says at last, his voice gruffer than before, hoarse with regret. "If I'd had any hope that you'd come round and love me, I would've stood up for myself and told you to clear out of my crypt more often. I'd've fought to make us work. Been a proper beau, flowers and chocolate and all the duff."_

_Slightly confused, Buffy tilts back her head so they are eye-to-eye._

_"I never gave you the chance to do any of those sorts of things," she shrugs. "I couldn't picture . . . _you_ having that kind of place in my life."_

_"Didn't stop me from wanting to. Thing is, I wasn't sure if you'd like me more or less if I did some of the codswallop. You got what you wanted out'a me, didn't want anything more out of _us_. I knew that, but sometimes, before you'd hit me and bugger off . . . I thought about wooing you, Buffy. Being a sodding romantic, like I'd've done if you were the girl of my nancy-boy days, 'cept without the bloody awful poetry, o'course."_

_"I'm a sap for poetry," she snickers, masking her own nerves in a joke, uncertain where Spike is headed._

_He seems equally unsure. Taking one more long draught of the chamomile-and-wildflowers scent of her hair, Spike leans away just enough for their eyes to meet, his arms still around her shoulders._

_"Since earning my soul, I've had an eternity of regrets to mull over. And . . . what I regret most is . . . the night I tried to hurt you, I should have done this instead . . ."_

_Closing his eyes, Spike bows his head and drops to one knee before his beloved._

* * *

[Present]

In their tiny cavern shelter, barely bigger than a coffin, Buffy slowly wakes, lying with her head on Spike's gently rising and sinking chest, his breaths a human habit so engrained in him that even a hundred years of being undead can't break it. Eyes still closed, she opens her palm and spreads her hand over Spike's black t-shirt. Her fingers brush the amulet, and she scoots it away from the hole it scorched through the fabric so she can touch the brand on the center of his chest. She feels the puffed circle of skin with tender fingertips, knowing without a doubt that – like the scar on his eyebrow – he'll bear this mark forever.

Finally opening her eyes, she's momentarily frightened by the pitch blackness of their surroundings, but with a steady breath, Buffy guides her fingers down Spike's body to his ankles. Though she has next-to-no medical expertise, she's certain from the twisted angle of his left foot that it still has a long way to go before being healed enough for him to walk properly. He'll have to use the scythe as a crutch while they dig their way out.

Wiping a sheen of perspiration off her forehead, Buffy follows her fingertips back to Spike's burned right hand. It's healed considerably, the blisters forming new patches in his familiar pattern of calluses. Feeling uncharacteristically sentimental, Buffy lifts Spike's hand to the side of her face and cups her cheek in his palm, his cool skin balancing her own flushed temperature.

Spike murmurs in his sleep.

"Footwear . . . get 'em off me . . . sodding heels . . ."

"Spike?" says Buffy, her curiosity skyrocketing. He continues mumbling, still unconscious.

"Told y' once, told y' a hundred bleedin' times . . . don't care what shoes you wear, pet, you're always a stunner, so don't get all barmy when . . ."

With a low gasp, Spike sits up and promptly cracks his head on the ceiling.

"Bloody hell," he exclaims, hands rushing to cradle his forehead. "Buffy? Where the hell are we? Not _in_ Hell, right? Why's it so dark?"

"No, we're alive, well, not _dead_-dead. We got buried under the Hellmouth."

"That right?"

He sighs, and his tone holds more emotion than Buffy expected.

"Yep, " she says. "All pushing-up-daisies . . . if daisies grew on Hellmouths."

"Buried alive," he continues, his voice still thoughtful, contemplative. "Guess we're used to that, you and me."

He reaches into the black air and touches her shoulder with a familiar gentle gesture, thumb brushing along the skin over her collarbone.

"Are you in pain, Spike?"

Her voice comes out breathlessly, the butterflies beginning to flitter in her stomach as her less-inhibited side adds up all the factors. _Dark plus alone plus Spike_ . . .

"A bit, but nothin' that won't mend, luv. Must say, parboiling really took the pluck out'a me. I'm knackered." He adjusts his posture, feeling the tight boundaries of the ceiling and walls. "Reckon the 'hole school fell in?"

"Probably. I haven't tried to find any cracks to start digging."

"Tunneling's a right tricky business, luv. Found out the tough way when I was hunting for the Gem of Amara. Pop the wrong air pocket and you're worse off than you started. Still . . ." he turns over onto his hands and knees, and she hears a scratching sound as he adjusts the scythe in its bracing position, "Niblet's probably worried sick about you right now, and chances are Rupes and Red are too busy patchin' up the Slayerettes to come dig us out. Guess we're on our own."

"Feels that way a lot of the time," she agrees gloomily.

Fidgeting so that she's also sitting as upright as the ceiling allows, they worm their way through the darkness to the entrance to the fissure. The floor is littered with clay and gravel that followed them inside with the avalanche. The opening, formerly wide enough for them both to crawl inside, is completely sealed off with soil and pieces of rock.

"Too tight here to work shoulder-to-shoulder," Spike observes from beside her. "Best take shifts. I'll start."

Buffy hears him shrug off his tattered duster and begin grubbing at the dirt in the crack with his bare hands. Picking the leather trench coat off the floor, she shakes it free of earth and folds it over one arm, then sits back on her knees, feeling somewhat useless. After a minute, a question occurs to her.

"What were you dreaming about?" she asks, trying not to sound as smug with curiosity as she feels.

"Come again?" says Spike, his quiet words muffled by his digging.

"Just before you woke up, you said something about 'footwear'. You did it two nights ago too!" she remembers suddenly. "You said you were 'drowning in footwear'."

Spike grumbles sourly. "Can a man not work in peace? I'm doing my bloody best to save our lives."

"Ooh, this is juicy," Buffy snickers. "What could you possibly have dreamed about that you'd want to hide-?"

"Dreamed we were old marrieds."

His words stun her speechless for a few moments. She isn't sure whether to feel pleased or anxious or just _more_ curious.

"Really?"

Spike's hands hack away at the cleft between the rock faces for another few seconds before he speaks again. "Yeah, yeah, cozy couple in a crypt for two, picket fence, two-point-five brats, and such."

"And my shoes?"

Despite the dark and the noise, she can tell he's rolling his eyes.

"I've seen your closet, luv. You've got more foot décor than that half-sane twit of a hell-goddess. Can't remember much of the dream, but I think the gist was we were late to some function – Scooby reunion or what – and you were holding us up on account of what sodding heels to wear to the party. Wouldn't listen to a word of sense."

Buffy giggles at the sheer ridiculousness.

"I would never do that."

"Sometimes I never know what you're gonna do, what's goin' on in that wild little head of yours."

There's more sadness in his voice than she expected, and she instantly wants to fight it, heal him, repair the heartless damage she's done to him for years. Leaning forward, she takes his shoulder, turns him so he faces her, and cups his face between her hands.

"But don't you like me all full of surprises?" she asks, smirking with just a hint of a pout . . . until she remembers that unless his vampire eyeballs are more cat-like than human, it's too dark for him to see her expression at all.

"Course I do. I love everything about you, Buffy."

He speaks so sincerely that it almost draws tears into her eyes, and words fail her. Closing the lightless distance between their faces, Buffy finds Spike's lips and captures his mouth with hers. The memories of all their many kisses come back to her with the familiar feel of his cool lips - the passion, the need, the cry for love, expressed in their very different ways.

"I love you too, Spike," she whispers, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak before she kisses him again, gentler, sweeter. He moans softly against her mouth.

"Biggest surprise yet, Summers. I like it."

"I'm never going to let you live that dream down, you know," she remarks in a snarky tone between two more kiss. He growls playfully and draws her closer to him, pulling her hips into his lap.

"You know how much I'd love a good roll, pet," he whispers seductively, trailing one hand up the back of her spine while his lips rove down her throat to her shoulder. "Dirt notwithstanding, floors are more fun than they're cracked up to be. But . . ." And to Buffy's astonishment, Spike separates their tangled arms and gently presses her away from him. "Your life's in my hands right now and I don't take that lightly."

"Huh? But you'd never bite me. Your soul . . ."

"Not remotely what I meant, luv," he explains, clearly worried. "Trapped down here under God-knows how much dirt. No air. You're gonna run out of oxygen."


	3. Chapter 3: Breathing

***Thank you all for your reviews and follows (particular shout-out to **Jandelfly **and** sherbsherb** for your kind complements)! Not to make excuses, but I'm in a really hard college major and it takes up a lot of my time. Hopefully I'll be able to update about once or twice a week. This is a nice long chapter, so hopefully you'll think it's worth the wait. As always, suggestions, questions, and/or requests are always welcome!***

**All rights belong to Joss Whedon (and unfortunately to the networks that cancel his shows)**

**If you missed parts 1-2, this is my AU of how 'Chosen' should have ended. Buffy remains with Spike as the Hellmouth crumbles, and they find shelter deep in the cavern, buried under miles of debris. There may be some canon mistakes with regards to Angel, but the story is pretty AU at this point anyway. Flashbacks sections are in** _italics_**.**

* * *

**Chapter 3: "Breathing" (Season 8, Episode 1, Acts III-IV)**

"How's Rosa doing?" Vi interrogates the hospital orderly, wringing the sleeves of her striped arm-warmers. Though the young redhead now carries the mixed blessing-and-burden of Slayer power, the supernatural high from inside the Hellmouth has diminished, and she's back to her nervous, nerdy self.

"She's going to be fine," he reassures her. "After about six weeks with her left arm and leg in casts, she'll be back to normal."

"Not completely normal," Kennedy grins from a seat in the back of the ward, thinking of how much Rosa will enjoy experiencing her newfound Slayer strength, speed, and agility. The orderly glances at her with a confused expression.

"Nevermind," says Vi. "Thank you for everything."

The ward assistant nods – still looking like he's missed out on some inside joke – and heads for the door. Faith slips in as it closes, and she tosses a bag of multicolored gummies to Vi before collapsing in a chair next to Kennedy.

"Robin holdin' up?" asks the denim-clad younger Slayer.

"Not quite five-by-five, but on the mend," Faith replies. "Give him a week and he'll be fit enough take on anything. Where's our favorite Mystery Gang?"

"Talking with Angel, I think," says Kennedy. "Only saw him once, but boy did he look broody. Have to say, one good thing about this mess is he's never gonna go evil again, what with Buffy . . ."

She doesn't finish, feeling remorseful at the attempted joke.

"Wouldn't count on that. Angel had a pretty big fling with Cordy. Bet you ten bucks he's dating Harmony within the year."

"But that could be misconstrued as an improper work relationship, since Harmony is his secretary and all," Vi points out.

"So what?" snorts Faith. "B and Iowa Boy were hittin' home runs when he was still her TA, wasn't he?"

"I think they just dated then, but didn't actually start . . . _you_ know . . ."

"_You_ sure don't," Faith chortles with a condescending glance at Vi's matching beret and arm-warmers.

Kennedy elbows Faith between the ribs, but before the tussle can continue, the ward doors open. Giles, Xander, Willow, and Dawn enter, all of their eyes red-rimmed from sleep deprivation and grief. Behind them, Angel sweeps in, a palpable aura of loss surrounding him.

"Have all the girls' injuries been seen to?" Giles inquires of Vi, removing his glasses only to further smudge them with a corner of his fleece jacket.

"Uh-huh. They're all gonna be okay."

"Thank you, Vi. You may join the others in the waiting room if you wish."

The "_if you wish_" seems more like a "_Now, please_", and Vi hastily scurries out of the room. Kennedy makes eye-contact with Willow, nods, and follows the girl out of the ward. Faith sprawls deeper into her chair, snorting defiantly.

"Well I'm not leaving just because the Frown Crowd decides to migrate in here and be all mope-y. What happened, Angel turn his face into an STD?"

Xander can't hide the grin that crinkles his mouth at Faith's assessment of them, but Dawn gives the brunette Slayer the darkest sneer she can muster in spite of her swollen eyes.

"I wish you'd died instead of Buffy," she announces in a firm, cold voice, her gaze locked on Faith. Willow winces and raises a faltering hand to the tall teenager's shoulder.

"Dawnie, I know you're-"

"Leave me alone."

Elbowing her way past Angel, Dawn leaves the ward, her sobs already returning.

"Should I go with her?" Willow asks, looking to Giles.

"Stay. Kennedy and Colleen will help her. We have matters to discuss with Faith."

At the mention of her name, Faith's eyebrows go up.

"You're including me in the Inner Circle, Merlin? Whatever'd I do to earn such an unwanted honor?"

"As the oldest and most experienced of the Slayers, it falls to you to guide the girls here and others who may seek us out," Giles explains, unable to keep a note of condescending irritation out of his voice. "And . . . we want your opinion on a matter we have been discussing."

"Mm'kay . . . what gives? Did we beat The First or what?"

"All evidence suggests that The First's hold over Sunnydale is broken," Angel answers, his serious visage even more weighed down with troubles than usual. "My team has been measuring the magical potential energy, and the Hellmouth seems to be permanently shut down."

"Score one for the good guys," pipes up Willow, smiling nervously.

"Then what's with Sadness Central?" Faith shrugs, adjusting in her seat so that her legs are splayed across the chair that Kennedy vacated as well as her own.

"There's . . . no indication that Buffy survived the Hellmouth's closing," says Giles forlornly.

Faith nods skeptically, her eyes meeting Giles's, then Willow's.

"Uh-huh . . . anything else? That can't be _it_, right? I mean . . . I thought B being snuffed was a given."

A loud _crunch_ breaks the exchange of muted voices. Everyone turns to Angel, who had laid his hand over the aluminum footboard of Rona's hospital bed. The bar now bears a palm-shaped deformity in the spot where Angel's fist had been.

"Sorry," he mutters unapologetically. He glowers at Faith, clearing promising that, cursed soul or no soul, he's tempted to repeat the crushing maneuver on her neck. "Go on, Rupert."

"There . . . there is a possibility," Giles continues, his confidence seeming to drop with every word, "depending on the circumstances, that Buffy might be . . . brought back."

His statement sinks in for a few moments. Faith glances at them all, realizes the sincerity of their hopes, and then chuckles hesitantly.

"Are you bluffing us here, Headmaster? You really want to sing that tune again?"

"Believe me, we debated for a considerable-"

"We _are_ going to bring Buffy back," says Angel threateningly, as if daring any of them to dispute his case.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said you could call the shots, deadbeat?" Faith demands. "Thought I was being included in Morbid Musings 101."

"Buffy would want to be with m- . . . us," Angel corrects himself at the last moment.

"Yeah, because that's exactly what happened last time," Xander nods, looking reluctantly reassured that Faith has joined his and Giles's side. "Let's recap. We rip Buffy out of Heaven, she hates us and decides to shack up with Spike . . ."

Angel growls. "I would have been there to help her if any of you'd had the perceptive skill to notice what pain she was in and called me . . ."

"Hate to spoil your fantasies, Gel Boy, but in case you forgot, B's not even into you anymore. She's opted for the shorter, blonder, British-er model."

Angel mumbles under his breath, and to Willow, who's standing nearest to him, it sounds remarkably like, "Never said we were bringing _him_ back too."

"And it seems to me that ya'll are forgetting one mighty important piece of your less-than-thought-out plan," Faith continues, ignoring Angel's grumblings. "Who's gonna be summoning back Miss Sunnydale 2003? Not Red here, right?" she waves dismissively at Willow. "I mean, of all the people to agree with me that this is the crappiest plan . . ."

"I'm not saying I'll do it," the witch interrupts, regretting her own suggestion to share their plan with Faith, "and depending on how she d-died . . . I don't even know if its possible to bring her back, but there are ways to . . . to check. Things I didn't think about the first time, to know what . . . what kind of dimension she might be in right now."

"So we don't extricate her from a heavenly realm again," Giles adds.

"Of anyone, she deserves to be in Heaven, 'specially after rapture number one got cut short," says Xander quietly. Willow wonders sadly if he's thinking of Anya, and what kind of dimension she might be resigned to for all eternity.

"And if she is?" Angel questions, knowing how selfish he must sound to them all.

"Then we could never consider ourselves her friends ever again if we disturb her peace," Willow answers him firmly.

"Then we're agreed," Giles concludes. "We shall return to Sunnydale and use Angel's sources and those from the Devon Coven to . . . assess what steps will be taken.

"Fine," Faith shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. "Go Team Us. Anybody know the way to the nearest ex-Hellmouth?"

* * *

[Hundreds of feet below the ruins of Sunnydale]

Time is indeterminate, a seamless flow of minutes, hours, perhaps even days. How long has it been since the earth opened up and swallowed them whole?

Their eyes are somewhat used to the darkness now, their surroundings barely distinguishable tints of black and navy. It's nearly impossible to tell how far they've progressed, or even if they've moved beyond the fissure at all. The dirt they scrape out from one end is piled up at the other, the space around them a tiny moving cell inching its way through blackness, constantly deforming and migrating, but never growing larger.

Despite Buffy's repeated demands that he let her take a turn, Spike is still the one digging, insisting that he bear the work so that the air in their little bubble – her only supply of oxygen – lasts as long as possible. She waits behind him, helping to chivy the soil that he hefts out of the roof of their prison. He's panting hard though he doesn't need to breathe, his black t-shirt soaked through with sweat. His hands are caked in dirt, his fingertips and knuckles raw and bleeding.

"Thought my strength would be back up to par by now, but I still feel like a sodding lightweight," he mutters apologetically. He rubs a cramp in his bicep and runs one dirty hand through his hair, taking just a momentary respite from the labor. Buffy stands – their digging has transformed the dark clearing into a taller, narrower cell than its original coffin-like shape – and lays her hand on his damp shoulder.

"Spike, it's okay. No macho-ness required. We've got to be close to the top . . . or at least a pocket, or something. A minute of rest won't make a difference."

He shakes his head despite his weariness, reaches up to the dirt roof again, and pries out a boulder about the size of his torso.

"Can't stop, luv, not 'till I get at least one fresh draft in here. Just swear to me you won't fall asleep. You get tired, pet, you chat me up. I'll shake you a bit and keep you open-eyed, got it?"

She looks into the whites of his eyes, the most evident parts of his face in their shadowy enclosure. Underneath the exhaustion, she gets a glimpse of his barely bridled panic, his dread that she should slip into unconsciousness from the lack of breathable air.

"Yes, of course I'll stay awake," she reassures him.

His fear unmitigated, Spike turns back to the ceiling and hacks away. Buffy sits back down and wraps her arms around her knees, watching her protector. She realizes that this may be the first time she's ever witnessed him performing somewhat ordinary physical labor. She's seen his battle skills for years and knows first-hand how strong and lithe and wiry every inch of his body is, but to watch him take on menial work humanizes him in a whole new way. Buffy grins, admitting to herself that Anya had a point all those years ago, admiring Xander at the construction site. It's more enticing than she imagined it would be, watching Spike tunnel, his arms flexing, his brow shining, his blonde curls coiling loose from the hair gel, his entire being resolved to toil until he's saved her.

Once more, time is fluid, imperceptible, repetitive. Just the sound of dirt shifting from one edge to the other. Eyes happily trained on Spike, Buffy smiles, leans over with the scythe supporting her arm and, without even knowing it, slips gently into a memory-induced, blissful daydream.

* * *

_[The previous evening, the night before the Battle of the Hellmouth]_

_She is stunned speechless, staring Spike full in the face as he kneels in front of her and reaches into one of the back pockets of his jeans for a palm-sized box made of black velvet._

_"Spike . . ."_

_"Let me say my piece, pet," he cuts her off, then bites his lip for a moment, preparing himself. Taking a deep but unnecessary breath, he begins quietly, his voice steady and reassured._

_"Buffy Anne Summers, you mean more to me than anyone I've encountered in over a hundred years. I've fallen deeply in love with you, your spirit, your kindness, your courage. I can't imagine wanting anything more in my . . . _un_life than to spend it with you. I want to stand at your side and be your man as long as we're both still fighting, come what may."_

_His eyes sparkle with a slight mischievous look._

_"I said some'it like this once before, as I recall. 'Just say yes, and make me the happiest man alive.' Well, now it's not some hocus-pocus gimmick making me _think_ you're the one for me. It's true, now and eternally. You _are_ my girl. So . . . will you marry me, Buffy Summers?"_

_He opens the lid of the little velvet box, revealing a simple but elegant ring, a central diamond set off by three tiny rubies on each side of the thin gold band. Buffy is captivated, gazing at the ring nested on its black velvet pillow._

_"Spike . . . I . . ."_

_Is it possible to resist the lure of those remarkable blue eyes, the soft smile at the corners of his lips, the truth in his words – that she can't imagine anyone else standing by her side, fighting as equals until the very end? She has to close her eyes to concentrate, forming a careful answer._

_"Spike . . . I want to say yes . . ."_

_His hint of a smile disappears instantly, as though her words are a slap to the face._

_"But you're not going to," he deduces. In one angry, fluid motion, he rises, turns away from her, and shoves the little velvet box deep into his back pocket again. He paces in front of her, just a few steps one way, then the other, and then without warning he retreats to a far corner of the basement, keeping his back to her._

_"Spike . . ."_

Crack!_ He drives his knee into one of the concrete walls, then lays his forehead against the corner, looking like a schoolboy being punished for misbehaving in class. He hasn't seemed so similar to the raving lunatic she had found underneath the high school in weeks._

_"Spike, I haven't said no!"_

_"Well, you're bloody well not saying yes, are you?!" he snarls. "Is it soddin' Angel, Buffy? God help me, are you turning me down for _him_?"_

_"No!"_

_"Do you think I'm doing this right now because I _want_ you? I mean, of course I _do_ want you, but I'm not trying . . . this has nothing to do with . . . I don't expect nothin' out of . . ."_

_"Spike, will you shut up and listen? I'm saying _not yet_, not tonight. After tomorrow we could-"_

_"Bollocks to after! Even if we both come out all our parts attached, not all of them upstairs are going to make it, I'm dead sure. What kind of selfish git would I be to propose to you then, with some of them girls dead, or Rupert, or Red, or Dawn?! I thought I was doin' things right by you, askin' now!"_

_Even from across the room, she can see him shaking intensely, struggling to keep his demon side under control in his spurt of anger and rejection._

_"Spike, will you please just listen to me?" Buffy pleads, watching him briskly crisscross the room, his tormented face scrunched up tightly, clinging to his humanity. Finally, with tremendous effort, he looks back into her eyes, tosses one hand in the air, and gives a unenthusiastic chuckle._

_"Fine, pet. Whatever you want. Whatever bleeding makes you happy."_

_He sinks down onto the cot, leans over with his elbows on his knees, and rakes his hands through his hair, dislodging some gelled strands from his carefully tamed mane of waves._

_"_You_ make me happy, Spike," says Buffy unwaveringly. He looks up and lifts a brow in skepticism, as if to remind her that their lives together haven't been all puppies and kittens._

_"And angry sometimes," she concedes, "and crazed and passionate and . . . alive. With you, I have everything, the whole gamut of emotions. I don't have to hold back with you, in any area of my life. I can share everything with you . . . well, maybe not sunlit walks through the park, but every part of who I am. So . . ."_

_She walks up to him, squats down on her knees, and taps the box-shaped lump in his pocket. "For now, I'm saying wait. But, William . . . when you ask me after tomorrow, I'm going to say yes."_

_His eyes search hers, silently begging her words to be true. At last, after a long, penetrating stare, his face transforms – not with bloodlust, but with joy._

* * *

"Buffy? Hey . . ."

Eyes wide with concern, Spike kneels in front of her and holds her face in his palms. She smells the dirt and his blood on his hands and the arousing fragrance of his sweat, evoking a smile of dizzy-headed contentment.

"Buffy, luv, I know you're tired, but you've got to stay awake. You hear me, baby? You can't sleep now, not yet. Just a bit more digging and then we can rest again. Gotta find air. Come on, Buffy!"

His last sentence is a yell, and she sees tears sparkling in his eyes a split-second before he kisses her. It's a desperate, heart-racing, rough kiss, but sweeter than the many times they'd kissed before he earned his soul. His hands fist in her hair at the back of her neck, and his lips ravage her mouth with a strength that would bruise a non-Slayer.

"Stay awake, baby," he growls against her lips. "Don't you dare sleep! You hear me, Buffy Summers?"

"Mmhmm . . ."

"Not good enough, Buffy! You sleep, you die. I've done too sodding much for you to let you die on me now. You fight it, luv. Fight it. I love you so much, Buffy."

He's still kissing her greedily between his demanding words.

"Just a bit longer, baby," and his tone is suddenly a sweet promise, alluding to more kisses and the possibility of clothes being shed and sheets being tangled around them. "Stay awake for me just a bit longer, okay?"

"'Kay," she whispers, nodding against his frantic mouth. "Stayin' awake . . ."

"I'm gonna keep digging, but you _must_ keep talking to me. Not too much, just a word now and then. Promise?"

"Prom's," she slurs.

Brutal fear in his eyes, Spike gives his lover one more head-spinning kiss before he turns back to the ceiling with a snarl, transforming into his vampire features. He wrests and scrapes the dirt with frantic desperation, shoving the dirt down around his feet.

"Keep talking!" he orders when she is silent for a few seconds, and she hears the slight lisp causes by his fangs. "Say something! God help me, Summers!"

"You . . . have . . . blue eyes . . . but they're . . . they're yellow now . . . because . . . you're in . . . game face . . ."

"That's it, baby! Keep talking to me! I love you, Buffy!"

Ignoring the pain that shoots through his ankle each time he takes a step, Spike rushes to the Slayer scythe on the floor beside her and swings the blade against the dirt above them, sending two large chunks flying and peppering them both with flecks of soil.

"Blue . . . and yellow . . . make green . . . my eyes . . . are green . . ."

"I love your eyes! You have such beautiful green eyes, baby! Just stay awake! Luv, I beg you, stay awake!"

He hacks at the ceiling with total ferocity, roaring like a mighty animal in a cage that is just barely strong enough to contain it.

"Think of Dawn, Buffy! Your Dawnie, our little Platlet! She loves you! She needs you! I need you!"

"Dawn . . . was a key . . . unlocked . . . Heaven . . . so light . . ."

"Almost there, baby! So close now! Have to be close! Oh, God! Buffy?! Buffy!"

The scythe clatters to the floor as Spike drops down beside her and shakes her shoulders, but her head droops limply, unresponsive.

"BUFFY! Buffy, no!"

With a leonine growl, he snatches up the scythe and drives the point straight upward into the roof, staking the belly of the dragon that has devoured them. Earth rains down on him, collecting in his eyes and hair and the creases of his demon visage. He impales the dirt ceiling all the way to the curve of the blade, then retracts the weapon and immediately stabs into the roof again, jerking the handle with a stirring motion to loosen the dirt.

"Please hold on, pet! Oh, please . . ."

He's too weak to notice when he reverts back to human form, his arms trembling violently but locked in their repetitive cycle of motion: stab, churn, withdraw. When the loose dirt inside the hovel reaches up to his mid-calve, he leans down to grab Buffy's wrist and yank her up on top of the new layer before continuing to plunge the scythe into the roof. If his heart could beat, it would be pounding fit to burst . . .

And then he smells the open sky. In another second a final shower of dirt dumps down on his shoulders, and he's momentarily blinded by the sudden moonlight that hits him like a spotlight. He can taste the rush of fresh air replacing the stale scent of the cave.

"It's air! Air, Buffy! Oh, thank God. Come 'ere, baby."

Tears streaming down his face, Spike crouches down and hoists Buffy in his arms, her head lolling on his right shoulder. He cries out as he stands - his left ankle buckling again from their combined weight. With repeated groans through clenched teeth, he limps to the beam of moonlight and holds Buffy's face as close to the source of renewed breathable air as his arms have the strength to lift her.

"Breathe! Breathe, baby . . . oh, God," he moans, half from pain and half from relief as she gives a tiny gasp and then starts to breathe steadily again. His chest shaking, Spike crumples to his knees and then onto his back, Buffy's still sleeping form sprawling diagonally across his body. He falls unconscious almost instantly, giving no thought to the fact that the circle of moonlight centered on him and Buffy will soon trade places with the sun . . .


	4. Chapter 4: Living

**Once more (with feeling), thank you all for your reviews, favorites, follows, etc! Shout-outs to **Rabbit-moon** for **"You don't have time to be reading this comment! Go write more!"**, and to my sort-of troll, **StarGirl909**, your reviews made me laugh when I was all gloomy and over-caffeinated and studying for an exam, so thanks!**

**As always, all rights belong to Joss Whedon (and unfortunately to the networks that cancel his shows)**

**If you missed parts 1-3, this is my AU of how 'Chosen' should have ended. Buffy and Spike find shelter as the Hellmouth crumbles, dig their way out through the debris, and fall unconscious in a patch of moonlight. Flashbacks sections are in** _italics_**.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: "Living" (Season 8, Episode 2, Acts I-II)**

"I see . . . Yes . . . Yes, we will take all necessary precautions . . . I understand . . . Thank you, Maureen . . . Goodnight."

Giles sets Angel's office phone back in its cradle and turns to the sober group gathered there: Xander, Willow, Faith, and the resident brooding vampire himself.

"What's up, doc?" asks Xander, lamely attempting to break the tension.

"That was Maureen, the historian for the Devon Witches' Coven. You remember her, of course, Willow?"

"Yeah, she was always really nice to me, never mentioned the whole flaying and raising of unholy monuments and stuff."

"Yes, well, a notable recommendation," Giles continues awkwardly. "Maureen has consulted the Coven's resources concerning successful resurrections that have been performed on victims of supernatural death, including your restoration of Buffy two years ago. The number of such occurrences is, expectedly, quite rare. Many factors must be present, including a witch or warlock powerful enough to attempt the resurrection, and the nature of how the person in question became deceased, including the condition of the . . . body."

"Hold up. What if B didn't die from that enchanted booby-trap necklace going haywire?" Faith asks legitimately. "What if she died on account of, like, a rock squishin' her?"

"That is a potential complication," says Giles, unhooking his glasses from around one ear and rubbing them with a well-used lens cloth. "But let us proceed with the hope that her death is magic-based. Now, if I can just . . ."

"Seems to me the whole plan's a flop if she's non-magically toasted. Why don't we go scout the Sunny-crater first, see if we can dig up B, or parts of her?"

"Faith, this is hardly the time for morbid archeological diversions. Once we determine how we plan to revive Buffy, _then_ we shall return to Sunnydale and . . ."

"No, hang on a minute," Xander interrupts, pointing an ominous finger around the group. "Faith may have a point. Buffy could have gotten . . . I dunno, knocked up a bit."

"Spike seemed pretty busy at the time," Faith reminds him, barely containing a laugh.

"Not _sex_ knocked up! _Falling boulders of doom_ knocked up!"

"What else did Maureen say about the condition of the body?" Willow asks loudly, returning everyone's attention to her and Giles.

"Well, she told me there are no recorded reports of resurrections being performed on the same person more than once. I'd like to hope that, as the . . . as _a_ Slayer, Buffy's, um, body would be more durable than most, able to withstand such an unprecedented event."

"Seems to me we've got an expert on B's durability from Mr. Frowny Fangs over here?" Faith indicates Angel with the tilt of her eyebrows. "Oh, the things he could tell us . . ."

"You know, Faith, the more I get to know you, the more I suspect you taste like poorly cooked Brussels sprouts," he replies acidly.

"Faith, Angel, not helping," Willow interrupts, giving the two of them a disapproving glower. "What did Maureen recommend, Giles?"

"Oh, actually she told me that our attempt to resurrect Buffy is against all natural laws and may create a rift in the continuity of this dimension, reeking unknown paranormal activity and unleashing utter chaos."

Faith and Angel stare at Giles in alarm, but Xander chuckles.

"Sure, Giles, good one."

When Giles does not acknowledge him, Xander looks at Willow, as if hoping she will join in on the amusement.

"Come on," he demands. "You were joking, right? I thought that was your 'aren't I funny with my sardonic British humor' voice. The Coven didn't come up with any reasons for us not to bring Buffy back, right? I mean, you know. Besides the fact that she's probably wearing a white bathrobe and sitting on a cloud with a halo and a harp . . ."

"You're bringing Buffy back? Again?!"

Dawn's alarmed voice reaches them all from the doorway. The brown-haired teenager is staring at them all, looking terrified and even somewhat betrayed.

"So this is what you've all been talking about behind my back? That my sister's dead, but you can't just leave her in peace? You have to pull her back out and make her solve all your problems?"

"Dawnie, please . . ." Willow begins soothingly.

"We thought you'd be happy," Xander shrugs. "I mean . . . if somebody other than Buffy, whom I loved very much, had the chance to come back for another go round . . . then yeah, I'd vote yes."

"But it's so . . . selfish!" Dawn's crying words seem to resonate through all of them. "She's done so much, worked so hard. What if she's finally at peace?"

"We will take steps to be certain that Buffy is not in Heaven, Dawn," Giles promises.

"Not in Heaven? Where else would she be?!"

* * *

_[The previous evening, the night before the Battle of the Hellmouth]_

_There is nothing else to say, nothing that can add to their perfect moment. They lie together on the cot in the basement, sharing only innocent kisses, tears and an unbreakable hug, both of them craving the other but respectfully abstaining. After all, it's the night before the end of the world. No time to get fresh. There will be time later . . ._

_"Morning, luv," Spike whispers as the clomping feet on the floor above them indicate that the many inhabitants of the Summers' household are patrolling for their first hunt of the day: breakfast._

_"Mmmm, already?"_

_"'Fraid so. Destiny calls."_

_He trails the tip of his nose down her cheek and kisses the cavity between her ear and her jaw, and Buffy grins._

_"Need more sleep now. Night-night," she says cheekily, rolling toward him and burying her face in his bare chest._

_"Can't do that now, pet," he smirks. "There's a world out there needs saving. B'sides – he playfully nips at her ear – "someone's got to keep a sharp look-see on Andrew and be sure he's not making eyes at our Platlet."_

_"What? Andrew . . . and Dawn?!"_

_Immediately at full Slayer attention, Buffy swings her legs off the bed and almost catapults herself over to where she left her jacket and shoes._

_"I'll show him! Stupid nemesis-wannabe Andrew! Thinks he can sweet-talk my sister with his . . . his nerdy jokes and his . . ."_

_"Buffy . . ."_

_Spike sits on the edge of the bed, chuckling as he pulls his black t-shirt down over his shoulders. Buffy finally stops trying to put her jacket back on inside-out._

_"What?"_

_"I absolutely adore you, Summers."_

_Buffy smiles, wondering how – after all the things they've ever said to each other – he can still make her blush like a flattered schoolgirl. Spike stands and approaches her, a sudden cautiousness in his face._

_"Buffy . . . may I kiss you?"_

_His iridescent blue eyes take her breath away. She nods eagerly and starts to lean in, but he shakes his head._

_"Let _me_ kiss you, Buffy."_

_Utterly confused, she rubs her still sleepy eyes with one hand. "How's me kissing you any different from you kissing me? It's still _us_ kissing."_

_"Might mean nothin' to you, but I'm a man, Buffy," he says, and she's struck by the ardor in his tone. "You've always been the one to lead, choosing the when and the how and the how-long our tête-à-têtes will last. Let me be a man for once."_

_Brows still raised in bewilderment, Buffy shrugs her shoulders and waits. Spike's hands move gently to her waist, but he does not pull her against him, just holds her, anchoring themselves together._

_In his eyes she sees a child-like nervousness, like a middle-school boy anxiously approaching his crush for a first kiss. His face tilts ever nearer, and Buffy's mind battles between closing her eyes to await the mysteriously crucial kiss with growing eagerness and watching her lover's handsome, chiseled features draw closer and closer. She's beginning to understand what he meant about _him_ being the one to kiss her, letting him control the building anticipation._

_He skims his lips just close enough for what feels like a single cell of her mouth to touch his cool skin, though to Buffy his temperature now seems warm. And she suddenly desires that touch on her neck, for him to kiss the silken flesh of her throat and enter her there, to pierce her with his ivory fangs, to devour her. It's desire and need and thirst and passion arcing inside her, stronger than ever before._

_Then his invincible lips finally close against hers, and all their previous kisses seem like grains of sand compared to a whole beach, or a drop in the ocean. The closest comparison is their first true kiss, a chaste, tender touch, full of innocence and gratitude, no mixed signals. Only now, instead of his lips being so puffed and bruised they could barely respond to her touch, his mouth is vibrant._

_He melts her to the core._

_Then a muted crash from upstairs cuts their moment short._

_"The hell . . ." Spike growls, staring angrily at the door to the basement. With a little angry snort, he turns back to Buffy and notices that she hasn't opened her eyes. "Buffy? You alright?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"You look a little bleary-eyed, luv. Nothin' loopy in your brain, right?"_

_"Just dizzy . . . I guess I'm a really bad kisser," Buffy says with a contented grin. "You're in charge of the kissing from now on."_

_Spike beams and bestows another gentle caress on Buffy's lips._

_"I love you," he says when they finally break apart._

_"I know you do," she says contentedly. His smile dims the faintest bit._

_"That's . . . that's good, but it's not the answer I was hoping for, luv," he admits._

_"I just . . . I want it to be really completely true when I do say it. I want it to really mean something. I do know that I trust you, Spike. I just don't know if I really . . . love you . . . yet."_

_"Only a matter of time, then." He gives the upstairs a bothered glance, as though sunrise has knocked on the door and ordered them to hurry up. "Well, Miss Summers, let's go be heroes."_

* * *

[In the crater that used to be Sunnydale]

Buffy cannot tell where she is, exactly, but she is happy. At peace. She knows that everyone she cares about is all right. Time doesn't mean anything. She is warm and loved . . . and finished. Complete. Heaven.

It has to be Heaven again. No worries, no rush, all soft and comforting and gently quiet. And Spike. She knows Spike is here with her now, so really it's better than Heaven.

She opens her eyes and quickly blinks in the sun's full-on glare. After unknown hours in the tunnel, the harsh light of day is at its brightest, stinging her eyeballs. Wincing, she turns over and hides her face in the comforting darkness of Spike's t-shirt.

Spike . . . sunlight . . .

Buffy sits up with a sharp gasp, glances up at the hole in the dirt ceiling, then stares back down at Spike, who is fully bathed in yellow light. He seems contentedly asleep, no smoke, no thrashing in pain.

"Spike!" she shouts, shaking his shoulder. "Spike, you're not burning!"

He nods and mumbles in his sleep, smiling peacefully. "Just my soul . . . burnin', stingin' on the inside . . . love burnin' me . . ."

"Spike, wake up!"

His eyes flicker open sleepily to reveal the luminescent blues that Buffy so loves.

"Ready t' go save the world, pet?" he says groggily, still semi-conscious.

"We already did," Buffy explains, growing increasingly worried that he may have lost his mind. "That was . . . some time ago. Maybe yesterday. I can't tell. We were trapped in the avalanche. You dug us out. Do you remember?"

"Yeah . . . dirt and darkness, mainly. And the amulet before that."

He lifts the chain of the medallion and eyes it, then his brows narrow.

"Hey . . . there's some'it I didn't notice before. Look."

He offers the amulet to Buffy, running his thumb along a pattern on the outside edge. She realizes it is a tiny inscription, words she cannot decipher:

'Cui multum datur, multum quaeritur'

"Can you tell what it says?" she asks Spike.

"Latin, I think," he mutters, staring at the inscription. "Best I can make out, it's some'it like, 'To whom much is given, much is required'. Might have to wait for Rupert to take another look-see and give you a proper translation."

"Er . . . I never really let him look at it before I gave it to you. Um . . . Spike?"

"Yes, pet?" he asks, his scarred eyebrow tilting in that unique way that is both teasing and loving. "What's wrong?"

"Well . . . now don't panic, okay?"

Instantly alarmed, Spike sits up, eyes glued to her face.

"Honestly, Buffy, how can you say some'it like that and expect me not to - ?"

He looks up past her to the open sky above them, the hole in the ceiling offering full exposure to the sun's rays.

"Oh God!"

Instinctively, he rolls out of the way and flattens himself against the wall of the tunnel, breath racing, eyes wide in alarm.

"Good God, luv, why didn't you tell me?! I could have been crisped . . ."

"But you weren't! We've been sleeping her for hours, and the sun didn't hurt you at all."

Bewildered and suspicious, Spike carefully extends his chapped and blistered right hand forward to the edge of the shadows, closes his eyes expecting pain, and lets his fingers enter the sunlit glow. He waits for a moment before daring to open his eyes.

"No pain . . .

"Spike, it must have been the amulet." She eyes the brand mark on his chest, the new scar visible where the amulet's heat burned a hole through his t-shirt and into his flesh. He absorbs her words slowly, fear creeping into his eyes.

"The amulet?" He eyes the medallion still hanging around his neck. "'To whom much is given, much is required'."

Buffy tilts her head at him, confused at the tone of despair coloring his hesitant words. "Spike, what's the matter?"

"Burned the demon right out of me," Spike whispers, crestfallen. "No more monster in your man . . ."

Buffy stares at him in astonishment. The fear in his voice is genuine, and she realizes that – though he would never admit it to himself or to her – he's suspected for a long time now that the only appeal he had to her is the age-old tie between vampire and Slayer, the thrill of danger in his presence, the challenge he presents.

Suddenly, he snaps his fingers.

"I've got it. It's a dream, all of it. I'm still asleep in your basement, got to be. The Hellmouth, the tunnel, you not breathin' and nothin' I can do 'bout it. It's a bloody dream. Should've known from the moment you said you love me . . ."

"You're not dreaming, Spike."

"Yeah, that's just what dream-you would say _in_ my dream, in't it?" he accuses despondently. "Try to make me believe I'm human again, trick me into scorchin' myself the next time I fancy a stroll –"

His words are cut short as Buffy steps forward and kisses him full on the mouth. She pins him to the wall and practically grapples with his face, rendering him incapable of any retort, kissing him senseless until she has to pull back for air.

"I _do_ love you, Spike," she insists before he has time to say anything. "This isn't a dream. It's real. And the idea that I only love the _vampire_ part of you is ridiculous. Besides, I saw you, before I couldn't breathe and fell asleep. You vamped-out and attacked the ceiling."

"You sure?"

"Positive. Try."

With a skeptical shrug, Spike squints and gives his head a small shake. His forehead knobbles-up and his fangs extend, and when his eyes reopen, the blue is replaced by yellow.

"Still got it, I s'pose. Now what?"

"Um . . . we could see what happens to you in the light, I guess?"

"And this isn't a clever ploy to get me deep-fried, right, luv?" he asks, somehow managing his signature eyebrow-raise even in game face.

"Of course not. Just . . . put your foot out, or something."

"Might as well burn what's already burned."

Spike lifts his right hand and, again, moves it tentatively toward the rays of sunlight. The moment it enters the glow, he recoils with a start, withdrawing his hand back into the shade.

"Ow!"

"Spike!"

"M' alright. Too tired to keep it up anyhow," he mutters, his face shifting back to his smooth, handsome countenance as he shakes the bit of smoke from his right hand. "Well, pet, don't ask me how . . . but this enchanted pendant has fixed me up for good, I s'pose. Guess I can give you that sunlit walk through the park now, if you're up to it."

Her smile glowing, Buffy takes hold of Spike's lapels and pulls him toward her. As she does so, she takes a few steps backwards, drawing him with her into the sunlit clearing. He squints, eyes adjusting to the unfamiliar direct brightness.

"I think this is perfect," she beams, winding her arms around his waist.

"And why's that, luv?"

"Because now . . . you can be my monster _and_ my man."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for sticking with me through it all! I think the next chapter will be the final installment (with an epilogue), and I should have it done within a couple days! I hope you've enjoyed re-imagining 'Chosen' with me. =) I have a few other ideas in the works, so I hope you stick around!**


	5. Chapter 5: Reunion

**Thanks all, particularly **CailinRua** for commenting on all my chapters! We writers adore feedback. =)**

**As always, all rights belong to Joss Whedon (and unfortunately to the networks that cancel his shows)**

**If you missed parts 1-4, this is my AU of how 'Chosen' should have ended. Buffy and Spike find shelter as the Hellmouth crumbles, dig their way out through the debris, and wake up in a patch of sunlight. The amulet drained the strength of Spike's demon such that he can fully function as a human, but can also call upon his vampire abilities if needed.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: "Reunion" (Season 8, Episode 2, Acts III-IV)**

[On the highway between LA and the Sunnydale crater]

"Are we there yet?" asks Dawn, her arms crossed grumpily over her chest and her stern glare fixed on the back of Xander's head.

She's still seething with anger that they would discuss – let alone _decide_ – to try to resurrect Buffy without including her in the Grand Post-apocalyptic Jury. If she's perfectly honest with herself, a part of her wants Buffy back, _and_ Spike. After losing both her sister and the man she's long considered her big brother, Dawn's just doing her best not to let her grief close in on her. But on the other hand, if Buffy is in a better place now, where she doesn't have to struggle through every day constantly fighting for her life, if she's finally earned her rest, then Dawn would never dream of taking that away from her. For now, she's just hoping that Giles and Willow will get some kind of magical confirmation that Buffy is in Heaven again, and then she can grieve and move on to whatever is next in her life.

"Dawnie, I think we'll be able to tell when we get there," Xander replies from the driver's seat. "Mostly because the road will be _gone_."

"You had to pick the smallest sedan in the lot, didn't you, Xander?" Angel mutters, his long legs cramped in the seat behind Willow. "I mean, it's just a rental. It's not like you were selling your soul."

"Hey, buddy, options of the tinted-window variety were limited. It was either speedy or roomy. At least this way we didn't have to bring Faith."

"Well, you could have let _me_ drive us to Sunnydale. Wolfram and Hart have some very nice luxury cars for the executives."

"Dude, your road rage is _not_ something I want to have scarred in my memory for the remainder of my long and preferably monster-free life."

"Xander, will you please concentrate on the matter at hand?" Giles huffs nervously, tempted to just order him to pull over and take the wheel himself, regardless of his expired California driver's license. He doubts whether any police officers will be watching this patch of highway for errant vehicles, considering the route to Sunnydale is a quite literal dead end.

"Only about forty more miles," Willow finally answers Dawn's question. "That should get us to the outskirts. It'll be almost sunset by then, so we won't have to wait long for it to be safe for Angel to leave the car with us."

"And then what?" the teenager demands, staring disapprovingly at the car's other passengers.

"Well," Willow replies, "I'll use some spells that Maureen recommended to test for remaining magical energy. We can't do anything unless we're completely sure The First has left the building, er, town, and the Hellmouth has closed up shop for good. If it's safe, then . . . we can try to search for Buffy."

"And this time we're digging her up _before_ resurrecting her, right, everybody?" Xander reminds them, like he's giving instructions to a gaggle of misbehaving preschoolers.

"Yes, thank you, Xander," Giles sighs. "Now for Heaven's sake, do shut up and drive."

* * *

[In the Sunnydale crater]

"Ow! Oh, bloody . . ."

The rest of Spike's words are muffled in a growl as he slides back down three or four feet of unsteady rubble.

"Here, grab this!" Buffy calls down to him. Holding tight to the blade handle, she extends the stake end of the scythe to Spike, who grips it and pulls himself up to where she sits on a stable beam.

"Thanks, luv. Cripes, if I'm going to have a limp for the rest of my bleedin' days, I think I'd rather just be dead!"

He indicates his left ankle which, despite healing considerably while they'd slept, is still giving him a good deal of pain.

Buffy smiles consolingly at him, but then glances around and gives a frustrated sigh. Though it feels like they've already spent hours climbing, she and Spike have barely reached what she estimates is the equivalent elevation of the school basement. Thankfully, from this point forward they'll be able to walk on relatively flat ground – rather than the intense bouldering that the route has been so far – but they're both physically exhausted, not to mention starved and thirsty.

"Do you want to rest here a mite, luv?" Spike asks her, seeing the weariness in her green eyes. "It'll be night in an hour or two, cool us off."

"No, no, I'm okay," she assures him. "We can keep going."

Ignoring her blasé answer, Spike leans over and wraps a tender arm around Buffy's shoulders.

"Can't fool me, pet. We'll tarry for a minute or two, then go on."

Exhaling with a shrug, Buffy scoots closer to Spike and lays her head on his collarbone. He smoothes a few tendrils of blonde hair out of her eyes and presses his hand against the back of her warm neck. Though laboring up from the depths of the cavern has made him sweaty, his body is still so cool compared to hers that his touch is instantly refreshing.

"You know I'd carry you a ways, were it not for this sodding foot," he murmurs, hearing her sigh in relief at his ministrations to her overheated face.

"Of course you would, Spike."

"Anything else the matter, pet? You know you can tell me anything."

"I've been thinking about . . . about Mom . . . and Tara," she admits, his embrace giving her the strength to confess her melancholic thoughts. "Their graves are here somewhere . . . churned up and tossed around in the earthquake. It's just so eerie, thinking we could be walking right over their bones."

"Hey, mustn't let that get you down, pet," Spike insists, gently holding her face and looking her in the eyes. "You of all people know they're both in a better place now. What's left on this earth is nothin' but measly bone and dust, just their shells. They wouldn't begrudge you a thing."

For several minutes they just sit together, breathing gently, enraptured in each others' tender arms. Spike waits until Buffy initiates ending the respite by sitting up straighter and looking onward towards the rising slope of the crater's edge.

"Ready to go on now, pet?"

"Yep. I'll feel better the farther we get from the center, especially before sundown."

"Let's head off then."

He stands on an adjoining beam and starts to offer her his hand, but a second later the board snaps, and Spike's right leg sinks into the dirt until he's up to his hip in dust. Trying to put as little weight on his injured left foot as possible, he struggles out of the weak spot until he's able to kneel on level ground.

"Sodding avalanche. Give a fellow a moment's peace – Oh God!" Spike exclaims in shock. He'd happened to look down into the hole his leg had fallen through and seen a bloodied face half buried in fallen soil. Buffy blanches.

"Spike . . . who?"

"No, luv, don't look. Please, Buffy . . ."

Frenzied with horror, she shoves him aside and glances down before he can finish. With a muffled gasp, Buffy recognizes the vacant eyes and pallid face of the corpse. Shaking with rising sobs, she turns back to Spike, who pulls her into his strong arms, hiding her face in his breast.

"Shh . . . Buffy . . . nothin' we can do, pet. Nothin' can hurt her now."

"Spike, it's . . . it's Anya . . ."

"I know, luv, but she's gone."

"Who else?!" Buffy nearly screams, suddenly trying to wrest out of Spike's hold. She stares around the crater, the soil tinted shades of yellow and red as the sunset draws ever nearer. "Who else is dead?! Oh, God!"

"Shh . . . can't fret about that, luv. We did all we could. It's out of our hands. We knew goin' in there were going to be sacrifices."

"What if . . . oh, God . . . Willow and Xander . . . Dawnie . . . oh, God, oh, God . . ."

Wracked by waves of grief and fear, Buffy keels over and clings to Spike, gripping the sleeve of his duster so tightly that she nearly rips the leather with her nails. He just rocks her gently, biting his own lip as her cries pierce his heart.

"I love you, Buffy," he murmurs into her hair, over and over, unsure if she can even hear him over her weeping. "I love you so terribly much, my darling. Please don't cry, my dearest, dearest love."

He's never heard her cry so violently – like her very lungs are heaving up out of her chest – and though anxiety is building up in his own gut at the thought of who else might have fallen in the battle, he loves her all the more for letting him be her anchor. Finally, Buffy seems to pull herself together, wiping her sopping eyes with her sleeve.

"Can you stand, luv?" Spike asks tenderly.

"Mmhmm," she sniffs, and he helps her to her feet, hobbling to keep his left foot from bearing his full weight. He interlocks Buffy's fingers in his own and looks her in the eyes.

"Just stay with me, luv. One step at a time. That's it."

With Spike using the scythe as a crutch, they continue to slowly make their way toward the looming edge that marks the outskirts of Sunnydale.

* * *

[At the city limits where the road ends]

The dark sedan comes to a slow halt several feet from the spot where the pavement drops off into the several-mile-wide crater below. Xander turns off the engine and reluctantly glances over at Willow.

"Sure about this, Will?"

"We're here," she shrugs sadly. "Might as well do what we came for."

"If we deem it necessary," Giles reminds them, unbuckling his seatbelt and checking his briefcase for their candles, flasks of colored sand, and other magical items.

"Right," says Xander. "Okay, team. Synchronize your watches for Operation Not-a-Hellmouth-Anymore."

"Hey! Careful!" Angel grumbles in alarm, lifting an arm to shield himself from the low lying sunbeams as Dawn opens one of the back seat doors.

"Sorry," she huffs, re-crossing her arms the moment after she slams the car door in Angel's face.

Willow looks out over the vast emptiness, made even more ominous by the blood-red light of sunset, casting long crimson rays over most of the valley.

"Where should we start?" Giles asks, standing beside her and also observing the sinister crater.

_Crunch_! They all turn at the sound of a disturbance in the gravel at the crater's edge about thirty feet from where they've parked the car. A moment later, a voice greets their ears.

"One more leg-up, luv. Almost there . . ."

Willow and Dawn's chins drop open as they recognize the British voice.

"Impossible . . ." Giles whispers, staring toward the edge of the brink.

Suddenly, the gleaming red blade of the Slayer scythe latches onto a chunk of disturbed asphalt. Before the Scoobies even consider how to react, Buffy and Spike haul themselves up out of the crater, using the scythe as part grappling-hook, part ice-pick. Panting, the two of them look up in unison, and their eyes meet the group of utterly shocked faces. Several seconds of stunned silence elapse, only interrupted by the muffled growling of Angel, frustrated to remain trapped in the car until the sun fully sets.

"Good Lord," Giles gasps, dropping his briefcase and laying one hand over his heart. "She's alive . . ."

"Told you the Niblet was alright, didn't I?" Spike shouts jubilantly, a grin splitting his face.

"Buffy?" Dawn asks, her quavering voice not daring to believe that her sister is really safe. "It's . . . it's r-r-really you, right? Not The F-f-f-first?"

Helped by Spike, Buffy gets to her feet – her knees ready to buckle from the combination of fatigue and exhilaration – and stretches her arms toward her little sister.

"Oh, Dawnie . . ."

Dawn and Buffy hurtle towards each other and collide in a tight hug. Squealing and crying happily, Willow descends on them both, while Xander flops down on a chunk of pavement, content to just watch the merriment and take several deep breaths of relief. Spike looks on joyfully, limping closer to the group hug, and Dawn notices him over Buffy's shoulder.

"You saved her! Spike, you saved her!"

Releasing Buffy and detangling herself from Willow, Dawn rushes to Spike, flings her arms around him, and plants a loud girlish kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you Spike!"

"Oi!" he proclaims in mock outrage, wobbling as she nearly knocks the scythe-crutch out from beside his injured foot. "Niblet! You're far to old to be goin' around snogging your elders!"

"Don't be a snob, Xander! Get over here!" Willow orders, beckoning her other best friend to join their embrace. Blushing slightly beneath his eye-patch, Xander stands and wraps his arms around Buffy and Willow. The frenzied rush of battle and heartache and separation and loss begins melting slowly off all of their shoulders, and tears of joy stream from all five eyes.

"Spike, how is this possible?" Giles demands, rubbing his glasses lenses as if he slightly hopes that the unpredictable blond vampire is a hallucination. Still being benignly strangled by Dawn, Spike grins at the Watcher.

"Well, I decided the whole pale vibe wasn't really _in_, y'know?" he smirks. "And you know how much I like to tempt fate. Thought I would try a nice tan, maybe a few freckles . . ."

When Giles continues to start at him in bewilderment, Spike relents and tosses the amulet at him.

"There's your magical thinga-ma-whatsit. Muzzled up my demon, lets me enjoy life sunny-side up again. Still got fangs and such when I want them, but otherwise I'm free as a bird of the non-nocturnal variety."

"Fascinating. You really do break all our expectations regarding vampires, don't you, Spike?"

"Do what I can, Rupes."

"Well, I shall certainly need to consult what could be recovered of the Watcher Archives and ascertain whether such a transformation has ever occurred before. Are you quite certain you have become immune to all methods known to kill vampires?"

"Not exactly been in the mood to test them, but it's clear sunlight's enjoyably non-fatal."

"I volunteer to cut off his head!" yells Angel from the car. He's rolled the window part of the way down, and half of his livid face is poking up from behind the glass.

Still held in a tight hug by Willow and Xander, Buffy glances over at the car and notices her former beau for the first time.

"You brought Angel? Even though you all through we were dead? What is this, a sunset wake? And what's with the bag of tricks."

She points to Giles' dropped briefcase, where several candles and vials of green sand have rolled free, visible on the pavement in the beams of the car's headlights. Willow releases Buffy and looks down at the ground, rocking back and forth on her heels.

"We were coming to resurrect you," she mumbles, visibly ashamedly.

Spike stares at her for a few seconds, then at Giles, waiting for one of them to contract the statement. When he realizes they are perfectly serious, he bursts into raucous laughter.

"You namby-pamby numbskulls will never learn, will you? Is anything not sacred anymore with you lot? _Resurrect her_, after all the hell we've been thr- . . . y'know what, forget it. I can't even pretend I'm surprised."

_Slam_! With safety guaranteed as the sun finally dips below the horizon, Angel emerges from the sedan. Fury oozes off of him in waves as he glares at Spike.

"Look who finally decided to make an appearance," the blond Brit smirks. "It's Mr. Grim and Gloomy, Creature of the Night."

Angel looks like he can't decide whether he wants to smack Spike, stake him, or perhaps give him a literal bone-crunching hug. Finally, he just stomps forward until he's standing in front of Spike and sticks his right hand awkwardly toward the younger vampire.

"Spike," Angel says, as though every word pains him. "Thank you for keeping Buffy safe."

"What kind of rubbish is this?" laughs Spike, glancing at Willow. "You sure he's not gone evil again?"

"Spike . . ."

"I'm bloody not shaking your hand, Angelus! Poof off! There're some nice crypts in Sunnydale you can . . . oh, wait, they were all destroyed when I bloody saved the world!"

At the mention of destroyed crypts, Buffy remembers the jarring discovery she and Spike had made only an hour or so previously.

"Xander . . . we found . . . _her_ . . . in the crater . . . we saw her body . . ."

Xander stiffens, glancing from Buffy to Spike. "Ahn . . ."

"Yes, mate," Spike answers, all merriment gone from his face, now the image of true brotherly solidarity to the human he once considered too pathetic to bite. "If you want to pay respects, I can take you . . ."

"No," Xander interrupts. "Spike, Buff, I'm . . . so sorry you had to see . . . find her, but I can't. I'm . . . happier, remembering her how she was."

"Xander," says Giles, "we still owe it to Anya's memory to retrieve her body and give her a proper burial."

"Not now, though, Watcher," Spike reprimands, slipping his arm back into a comfortable hold around Buffy's waist. "If Xander's not for it, we won't go tonight. I'll guide you there tomorrow."

"Did anyone else . . .?" Buffy doesn't want to finish her question, but Dawn grasps her meaning.

"Everybody else is okay, 'cept for a few girls who didn't make it out before Faith, but you already know about them. Rona and Robin are hurt the worst, but they're getting fixed up in a hospital in LA along with the others. We left Faith, Kennedy, and Vi in charge."

"Those _three_, in charge?" Buffy asks skeptically. "But you did specify who was number _one_ in charge, right?"

"Uh . . ."

"Oh, dear me. Well, I suppose we should get back before some calamity befalls them," Giles suggests.

"Yeah, or they tear each other's heads off!"

"Exactly my point, Dawn. What is it now, Xander?"

"Er . . . we may have a bit of a problem." He gestures at the black sedan. "We only have five seats, and now we have seven people."

"Oh. . ."

"All in favor of leavin' Peaches behind?" Spike announces, holding up his hand to ensure his vote is counted first. Dawn enthusiastically lifts her own hand in the air before receiving scowls from both Angel and Giles.

"Unfortunately," Giles reminds them all, "Angel is the only one with the passcode to the Hyperion Hotel, so if we ever intend on seeing our meager remaining belongings again . . ."

"Balderdash, Rupert! Red could crack that in half a heartbeat, couldn't you?"

Willow shoots a glance at the back of Angel's head before he has the chance to turn around, and then winks at Spike.

"Well, I _might_ be able to hack into the Wolfram and Hart files . . ."

"You wouldn't dare!" Angel exclaims, outraged. If he wasn't already abnormally pale, all color would now have drained from his face.

"Changed my mind," Spike says suddenly, drawing Buffy even closer to him. "Gotta better plan. A certain lucky lady _could_ sit in my lap, if she _wanted_ to . . ."

Grinning ear to ear, Buffy wraps her arms around Spike's neck and begins kissing him so passionately that Dawn actually blinks and looks at Willow as though she is too young to be seeing such a public display of affection.

"You know," Xander mumbles to Giles as both of them divert their eyes from the romantic scene, "I don't really _need_ my other eye. I mean" – he takes a quick glance at Spike and Buffy and shudders – "Some things are better left _un_seen."

"My sentiments exactly, I assure you."

"Can the sun come back up and dust me?" Angel asks plaintively.

"It would be a stretch, but I could probably manage that, if it'd make you feel better," Willow teases, too delighted watching Spike and Buffy's enthusiastic and rather vocal kiss to really care what Angel asked for.

Finally, to the relief of all the blushing faces, the Slayer and the vampire unglue themselves from each other's lips.

"Sorry all," Spike grins, "but Miss Summers and I have unfinished business, and I am not waiting another bloody second."

Yanking the ring box out of his back pocket, Spike takes Buffy by the hand, pulls her a few steps away from the group, and sinks to one knee. Willow and Dawn's faces explode with smiles, while Giles, Xander, and Angel all look as though they would rather have another round with The First.

"Buffy Summers, will you marry me _now_?" Spike half-demands, the slightest growl in his dulcet voice.

"I . . ." Buffy can't stop herself from giggling at the looks on the faces of everyone dear to her – Willow beaming, Dawn euphoric, Xander lenient, Giles flabbergasted, Angel devastated, and William the Bloody . . . furiously . . . impatiently . . . glorious.

"Oh, Spike . . . of course it's yes!"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, okay, one more chapter still to come. ;) Have to give Spike and Buffy their well-deserved happily ever after . . .**

**Anyway, for my next multi-part Buffy fanfic, I'm torn between a couple ideas and wanted to throw them out to you, gentle readers. **A) Alternate version of Hell's Bells, happy endings all around;** B) A Season 4 AU where Buffy stayed in LA after killing Angel and a new slayer (not Faith) comes to Sunnydale to replace Buffy and Kendra. First chapter almost complete. I swear this would not be a 'Mary Sue' character; **_C) I'm considering attempting a Firefly-Buffy cross-over, not sure which all characters would be involved, most likely Spike, Buffy, and main Scoobies aboard Serenity w/ full crew, though that would be a bit tight_ quarters; D) Buffy/HP crossover (no HP characters) where Buffy faces various monsters from the Harry Potter series, starting with Dementors.**No matter what I write, you can be assured Spike and all his sexy glory will be up-front and center. If any of these ideas interest you, I'd love to know in a review. =)**


	6. Chapter 6: Heaven, part 1

**A/N: Thank you all so very much for your complementary reviews and feedback. This chapter started getting so long that I broke it up! Two-part Spuffy wedding!**

**As always, all rights belong to Joss Whedon (and unfortunately to the networks that cancel his shows).**

**If you haven't read the previous chapters, here is the brutally summarized version: Buffy stayed with Spike after admitting her love for him ("I love you." "No, you don't. But thanks for saying it."), they survive the Sunnydale avalanche as the Hellmouth closes, and Spike (who is now able to walk in sunlight thanks to the Amulet draining much of his demon's power) proposes to Buffy in front of the flabbergasted Scoobies.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: "Heaven, part 1" (Season 8, Episode 3, Acts I-II)**

[Three weeks later, Los Angeles]

**Groom's Suite, four hours before the wedding**

It's a very strange feeling, being able to see his reflection in the mirror after over a hundred years of guesswork. Spike stares himself down, taking deep, calming breaths. His tux awaits on a nearby hanger, sheathed in a transparent hanging bag, but he lingers, assessing himself in the glass. Now that he sees the effect at last, he smugly admits that, yes, he does look good blonde. He's let a bit of his natural roots show as the dye's faded over the past few weeks, and at Buffy's request, his curls have been gelled into a sexy mess instead of his usual slicked-back look.

And yet, without even _trying_ to be humble, Spike realizes that seeing his own fetching reflection only makes him more excited to see his bride.

A fist pounds on the door, and Faith's aggravated voice disrupts his thoughts.

"Hey! Bleach boy! B may have all day to get ready, but _you_ need to be out for the pre-nuptials meet-and-greet, so if you're not ready within the hour I'm gonna come in there and strip you myself!"

Grumbling, Spike stomps over to the door and opens it to see Faith – part Wedding Planner, part Evil Bitch-Monster of Death – already decked out in full make-up, salon quality hairstyle, and coordinated jewelry, but still wearing her standard jeans and a cut-off tank top.

"Can a bloke not have half a minute to himself on his wedding day?" he asks innocently, his lips a plaintive pout. "And if you're wearing _that_, I'll be surprised if they let you enter the sanctuary."

"You listen here, Blondie! Willow and I have been ripping our hair out to pull off this wedding, and if you screw up, so help me . . ."

"Faith, leave him be," says Xander, joining her in the hallway. "A man needs time to himself on a day like this. Trust me, I know."

"Not to throw blame, Xand, but if he so much as _thinks_ about leaving B at the alter, Willow will hex him into his body weight in slugs and then I'll stake every last one."

"Don't be daft! I'm not going to walk out on Buffy! I've been waiting for this day comin' on three years now!"

"We know that, Spike," Xander reassures him. "That's why Faith is _going_ now, to let you get ready."

Sneering at both of them, Faith struts away down the church hallway.

"Thanks, mate," Spike shrugs to Xander. "Blimey. Why ever'd we put _her_ in charge? Should have left the whole kit and caboodle to Red."

"Too late now," Xander grins. "Anyways, don't mention it. See you in a bit, big guy."

He turns to go, but pauses just as Spike is about to close the door.

"Spike, for the record, if a really old, toothless version of you shows up and tries to convince you that you and Buff won't be the jolliest couple this side of the Happy Hunting Grounds, clock him for me, won't you?"

"I'll keep that in mind," Spike replies, thoroughly amused.

Xander gives him a thumbs up and departs to get ready himself. Alone again, Spike faces his reflection again and inhales determinedly.

"Don't look so kittenish," he gravely reprimands his mirror image. "You're the Ex-Big Bad. You've earned this. Got your soul back, saved the world, now the girl of your dreams wants to marry you. So . . . so grow some stones and enjoy your wedding!"

Nodding fiercely, he drops his duster to the floor, yanks off his black t-shirt, and reaches up to unzip the tuxedo from the hanging bag.

* * *

**Bride's Suite**

"Okay . . . the ushers are all here . . . and Kennedy's keeping Aunt Arlene away from the champagne . . . Buffy, are you positively _sure_ you won't let me do your hair and make-up by magic?"

"You know it's impossible to take you seriously in that bathrobe," Buffy points out, indicating the fluffy pink terrycloth that makes Willow look a bit like a frosted cupcake. "And I told you, Will, stop being such a worry-wart. There's plenty of time to do things the old fashioned way."

"Magic _is_ old fashioned!"

"No magic," persists Buffy, laughing at the panic-stricken look on her best friend's face. "You, Dawn, and Faith can get me looking wedding-worthy in plenty of time. It's not like they'll start the _March_ without me."

"Don't count on it, B," Faith warns, storming into the suite with her arms laden with bags of beauty products. "I slaved over the timing, and now Spike's being _impossible_! I went to check on him and he's still in that horrid leather thing. Maybe when he's out in the sanctuary I'll sneak into the groom's suite and _burn_ it!"

"Hey! I like his duster!" Buffy protests.

"So do I," adds Willow, sitting Buffy down in the salon chair and starting to comb her shower-wet hair. "It's classy."

"Whatever. So, Red, I'm sure I've got everything we wanted. I planned it all down to the dime, and if I have to ask Angel for money again, I think I'll strangle myself with the veil."

"Drastic much," Dawn mutters, entering behind Faith. She too is enveloped in a pink bathrobe, but unlike the other two, she radiates glee. "B'sides, Buffy _always_ looks pretty. We'll barely have any work to do."

"Fibber," pouts Buffy. "I have dark eye circles in need of some _major_ concealer. I barely slept at all last night."

"Thinkin' about the honeymoon night with your undead soon-to-be hubby?" Faith asks with a sly wink. "Come on, B, it's not like you haven't –"

Willow clears her throat to shut Faith up, and Dawn immediately scowls at them both.

"If that '_ahem'_ was because _I'm_ here, I know Spike was Buffy's secret boyfriend when you brought her back from the dead, before he got his soul. I'm not twelve, ya'know."

"Dirty mind on Summers Junior, here," Faith grins. "We'll have to have a post-wedding bachelorette party. You and I'll rock this town, Dawnie! No cover, no curfew . . ."

"People! Priorities!" Willow insists. "We have a bride to make-over. We'd better hurry up unless the new plan is for Dawn and I to wear _these_ for the ceremony."

"Just don't use any creamy rinses," Buffy pleads, as Faith tilts back the salon-style chair and shoves a towel over the back of Buffy's shoulders.

"Slayer's honor, B," she smirks. "Willow, hand me the cucumber."

"Okay, but can I at least _slice it_ by magic?"

"No magic!" shout Buffy, Dawn, and Faith all at once.

* * *

**Groom's Suite, two hours before the wedding**

As his long pale fingers artfully knot his white bow-tie and smooth the front of his tux, Spike gives himself a sweeping look-over in the glass. He likes the style that Bridesmaid-zillas Willow and Faith finally settled on – a traditional black tuxedo with red accents on the cuffs and lapels. He's never been a fan of the starched penguin look, but for times like these it has its pros.

"Gosh . . . you look really swell, Spike," says a high-pitched, flustered male voice.

Spike whips around in mild fury to see Andrew in the doorway to the groom's suite, blushing scarlet and holding a stack of wedding handouts.

"Oi! You're not supposed to be in here! How long have you been standin' there? Who let you in?"

"Angel," Andrew confesses. "Only a minute. He said I could come back and see . . ."

"Should'a known. Alright, squirt, get back to ushering, sharpish!"

Andrew scurries away, almost colliding with the groomsmen, Xander and Angel, both of whom are dressed immaculately in their own black tuxedoes. Spike scowls at Angel before returning his gaze to the mirror and straightening his bow-tie.

"Guess it's not all a loss, letting the poor little blighter back here for a look-see. Now he won't _faint_ when I walk into the sanctuary."

"Happy thought," Xander grins, adjusting his eye patch in one of the room's smaller mirrors. "I tried to sic him on Faith, but she threatened to gut him if he got in her way. Who would have guessed 'Darth Wedding Planner' was her true calling."

"I'm surprised she and Red didn't tear each other into itsy girly bits over the table settings," Spike agrees. "Worked for me. I didn't have to do a soddin' thing except stand around and nod when Buffy said so!"

Satisfied at last with his appearance, he turns to face the two of them. "Now, tell me the truth, Angel, does this cummerbund make me look fat?"

Angel's face remains in its almost immoveable scowl.

"Shut up, Spike."

"Touchy temper, old fellow. You're just jealous that I asked Xander to be my best man and not you!"

"Am not!"

"Well, I guess that's pretty low on the list of the things about me that make you jealous right about now."

"Xander, if I hamstring him, will you tell on me?" Angel asks, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially. "I mean, he's only just stopped limping. Nobody will suspect . . ."

"Ya'know, for a couple of old stooges, you two make _me_ look mature," Xander points out, checking his own red bow-tie and the rose corsage peaking out of his breast pocket.

"Foiled again, Angelus," Spike smirks. "Scuttle off now and help with the ushering. Oh, and Peaches, if you so much as _breathe_ funny when the preacher says 'If anyone has a reason why these two ought not to be wed', I'll stake you right through the ol' pacemaker. Got it?"

"Duly noted."

"Good. Now . . . flutter away, Your Royal Batty-ness."

"Aye-aye, Captain Peroxide," Angel mutters under his breath. As he reaches the door, he addresses Xander in a low, solemn voice. "I'll be good, I swear. Besides the fact that Faith would probably decapitate me if I mess up her schedule, I wouldn't want even my century-old rivalry with Spike to spoil Buffy's special day."

"That's the spirit," grins Xander. "I'd give you an approving wink, but you wouldn't be able to tell that it wasn't me just blinking normally. See you in the sanctuary."

Angel nods respectfully and leaves the room. Spike lets out a sigh of relief.

"Sorry I don't have a spare eye to keep on him," Xander shrugs.

"Nothin' to be sorry for, mate. Angel's all talk nowadays. Used to be he was the nasty sort of fellow who could make your hair go gray. Luckily, I can't be bothered with that rubbish. Hopefully . . ."

"Hopefully?" Xander repeats, understanding where Spike is headed. "What, you think the Amulet doohickey un-immortalized you?"

"Prob'ly just idle thoughts . . ." Spike drops his gaze to the floor before looking back up at Xander. "It's just . . . it makes me wonder, if I could give Buffy . . . a normal kind of married life."

"Kids?"

Spike just nods at Xander's perceptive guess.

"Look, Spike . . . say, I don't have to call you 'William' or 'Will' now, right? Because I already call Willow 'Will' half the time and it'd be so confusing."

Spike chuckles. "Mate, I'm pretty sure nobody plans to stop callin' me Spike just 'cause I'll be a married man an' all."

"Well anyways, Spike, I know I've not always been friendly to you, and in my defense, you weren't such a good houseguest, but . . . I know you mean the world to Buffy. And I know she doesn't care if you can or can't father children with her. She's your girl, completely wholehearted. And . . . I just wanted to say that I'm proud to stand at your side today, Spike."

"That means a lot, Xander," Spike replies sincerely. "I'd pat you on the back, but Lil' Miss Wedding Overlord would prob'ly see the handprint on the suit and have herself a merry coronary."

"I don't know how she thinks we're going to avoid multitudinous pats the moment we step outside this door," Xander says with a smirk. "I was out there earlier, and it's like that last class right at spring break when the bell finally rings and everyone makes a mad dash to the door."

"Blimey. I didn't know I knew that many people."

"Yeah, I think word got out that a certain couple who are about to enter wedded bliss just happened to save the world . . ."

* * *

**Bride's Suite**

"Oh, Buffy! You look beautiful!" Dawn admires her older sister, beaming as she and Willow – who somehow managed to find time to put on their red bridesmaids gowns – check over every fold of Buffy's streamline, empire-waist wedding dress and each strand of hair in her intricately styled golden waves.

"Even I've gotta admit, B, you're lookin' five by five," Faith grins, giving Buffy's reflection a nod while she adds on another layer of her lipstick and adjusts the cleavage line of her own slightly sleazier version of what Willow and Dawn are wearing.

"Absolutely perfect," adds Willow. "I'd give it my stamp of approval, but . . . then I'd just have to wash out the stamp stain, and then we might as well start all over again."

"You're having too much fun," Buffy teases Willow. "Or maybe the burden of being Maid of Honor _and_ Co-Wedding Planner was just too much responsibility and you've had a breakdown."

"Fiddlesticks! I'm as sane as ever a best-friend-witch-bridesmaid ever was! Or, maybe I'm just relieved that Faith agreed to put us all in red dresses instead of sea-green again."

"Green would'a looked bad with Spike's complexion," Faith justifies herself. "So, I'm gonna go check that the boys are set while you gals finish up. Don't go anywhere, B."

"Not until the music summons me," Buffy promises dutifully.

As Faith scurries out the door, Willow literally bounces up and down.

"I can't believe you're getting married! Well, I can, but it's just so wonderful! Ah, I think I'm going to explode!"

"Did Will break out the champagne already when I wasn't looking?" Buffy asks Dawn, slightly serious.

"Nope," says her little sister. "We're just awestruck 'cuz you're the prettiest bride ever! And . . . well, yes, we are relieved that Faith gave up on the green bridesmaids' dresses craze."

"Thanks, Dawnie. I just . . . I wish Mom was here to see us. And Tara. And Anya."

Buffy looks to Willow as she finishes speaking, and sees tears of both joy and sorrow forming at the edges of her best friend's eyes. Willow puts an arm around Dawn's shoulders and gives her a gentle squeeze.

"They _are_ here, always," she smiles, glancing up at the ceiling. "And they're happy for us."

"Thank goodness for waterproof mascara," Buffy sniffs, flicking a few tears off her own eyelashes. "Okay. What's left? Earrings?"

"Got the 'Old' and 'New'," answers Dawn, cleaning off the tiny diamond studs with hydrogen peroxide before carefully inserting them into Buffy's ear piercings. "Two belonged to Mom, two are from me, and this one I just bought at the mall."

"They're wonderful, Dawnie. Veil?"

"Right here," replies Willow, holding streams of the gossamer white fabric. She sticks a few hair pins between her teeth and then carefully affixes the veil and its tiny attached headpiece to the top of Buffy's head.

"These are the 'Borrowed,' but I don't care much if I get them back. Just don't poke yourself when you put your head down tonight," she advises.

"I'll try to remember that, but it's probably a lost cause," smiles Buffy. "And . . . something 'Blue'?"

Grinning more widely than ever, Willow scurries over to her purse, fetches a tiny fistful of fabric, and waves it in front of Buffy.

"The garter!?" Buffy demands, shocked and blushing.

"Well don't look at _me_ like that! It was Faith's idea! Let's keep this to ourselves, but I think she's hoping Angel will catch it."

"Ewww," Dawn rates that scenario.

"That's cruel, sick, twisted, and _soooo_ Faith," agrees Buffy. "Alright, let's have it then."

She lifts up a side of her dress's silky skirt, and Willow slips the garter around Buffy's foot and shimmies it up to her mid-thigh.

"And . . . bouquet?"

With a radiant smile, Dawn hands her sister a bountiful arrangement of white and red roses, cushioned with Queen Anne's Lace. Just then, Faith pokes her head back into the bride's suite.

"Church is mighty packed. You'd think we'd saved the world or something. You ready, B? Take-off in fifteen minutes."

Buffy takes a deep breath, and with Willow and Dawn's help, she carefully steps down off the short cushion-like stool and faces the door.

"I'm ready."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry to keep you hanging, but it might be several days before I finish the next part; I'm going back to college (spring break is over, alas!) and have a ton of assignments and tests this week. =(**

**Please continue to let me know which of my next Buffy fanfic ideas catches your fancy (see ending Author's Note of previous chapter, update includes a 4****th**** idea). There's also a poll for the choices on my profile page (AGriffinWriter). I may end up just posting initial chapters of each one and seeing which one gets the most feedback/interest. So far the "Hell's Bells" rewrite is getting the most requests. Ironically, that'll be the hardest one to write, as well as the only one I haven't really started on yet. But . . . we aim to please. =)**


	7. Chapter 7: Heaven, part 2

**A/N: Thanks for being patient for this next installment! My week was insane (just a taste of it: 19-pg engineering lab report, two exams on one day, planning a major fundraising event . . .), but I got through it and finally had time to devote a few hours to this story.**

**Spike and Buffy's wedding continues! It just keeps getting longer than I planned; I'm not trying to tease you. The reception will be part 3 (maybe 3 and 4), and I will try to have the next bit out as soon as possible!**

**As always, all rights belong to Joss Whedon & networks**

* * *

**Chapter 6: "Heaven, part 2" (Season 8, Episode 3, Acts III)**

**Church Sanctuary, ten minutes before the wedding**

He definitely does not know this many people. Spike wanders wide-eyed through the smartly-dressed congregation, accepting handshakes and congratulations from men and women he has never seen before in his life. At last, the sight of a familiar wrinkly face steadies his nerves.

"Clem! You made it, ol' boy!"

"Hey-ya Spike! What a big day! Would'ya take a look at this crowd!"

Spike weaves through the wedding attendees and shakes Clem's large hand enthusiastically.

"I don't have a clue who _invited_ all these people," he splutters to the floppy-skinned demon. "Thought it was gonna be more of a family spectacle. The wedding party, Buffy's relatives and the Slayerettes, couple of Angel's coworkers . . . not half the population of Los Angeles!"

"Plus a few Sunnydale refugees like me," Clem winks. He stares around at the ceiling and walls, admiring the tall stained glass windows of the sanctuary. "Wow. You know, I think this is the first time I've ever been in a church."

"Nice, ain't it?"

"Yeah, but it still gives me the Wiggins just a bit. But . . . you don't seem to have any problem with it. So . . . is it true you're, like, only part vampire now?" asks Clem curiously.

Spike shrugs. "Sunlight and crosses are out, and I ate a whole garlic clove on a dare . . ." He cringes at the memory and the corresponding wicked merriment on Angel's face. "The Great Poof didn't bother to tell me that even _humans_ don't eat them like that."

"Wow," Clem repeats. "But still, sunlight non-lethal. That's really something."

"Spike!"

At the sound of his name, he turns to see Giles standing near a side door, gesturing urgently for Spike to join him.

"I guess I'll let you go now," says Clem. "Boy, he doesn't look happy."

"Better see what the trouble is," Spike murmurs in growing apprehension. "Sit anywhere you want, mate. And you'd better stay for the reception!"

"Sure thing, Spike! Good luck!"

Nervously fiddling with his bow-tie, Spike crosses to where Giles awaits.

"What's the stitch, Rupert? Your tux doesn't fit right?"

"Spike," Giles whispers angrily, and for a split-second Spike wonders if the Watcher has changed his mind and is refusing to give Buffy away to him, "the most dreadful, impertinent . . . Hank Summers is here."

"What?! Oh, balls. Thought the bugger was in Spain. How'd he even get invited?"

"Willow sent him an invitation merely out of courtesy. I can't believe he would dare show his arrogant face here, the knave," Giles mutters. "I didn't think for a moment he would actually come. I've just told Dawn, but she refuses to speak to him, of course."

"Can't blame her. That's 'im, in't it?"

Spike nods at a brown-haired, suntanned man a little younger than Giles, who has just entered the back of the sanctuary and appears to be hunting for a seat. There's just enough in the man's facial features to remind him of Buffy.

"Yes," Giles hisses. "Horrid man!"

"Think _I_ should have a word with him?"

"I think you must, Spike. If nothing else . . . to introduce yourself to the father of your bride."

"Don't be daft, Rupert. You're the nearest Buffy's got to a real father. But, cripes, what am I supposed to say to the chap? 'Nice to meet you, Mr. Summers. Hope you don't mind that I'll be marrying your lovely eldest daughter today'? What a ponce I'd sound like!"

"Just . . . don't frighten him into making a spectacle of himself."

"Bite him," Dawn suggests darkly, sneaking up on the two of them and making Giles jump with a squeak of fright. She scowls at her dad from across the sanctuary. "Do us all a favor."

"Can't do that, Niblet," Spike chuckles. "Wouldn't want blood all over my monkey suit. 'Sides, I'm sure he tastes terrible."

"Fine, let him live," she concedes crankily. "But I don't want Buffy to see him. It'll make her think of Mom . . . and she deserves to have a happy day and not have it spoiled by _him_."

"I know, Dawnie. I'll get him to leave sharpish. Not sure how, but I will."

"Thanks Spike." She turns towards the bride's suite but then remembers, "Oh, Giles, Faith says it's your cue to come back for final prep with Buffy. And she also says, Spike, if you keep messing with your tie it'll twist right off."

"Oh, so she's spyin' on me, is she? Nasty bugger."

"Yep," Dawn grins. "So be good for about another half hour and then you can do whatever you want and Faith isn't in charge of us anymore."

"Thank heavens for that," mutters Giles, raising his eyebrows as he cleans his glasses lenses with the handkerchief out of his tuxedo pocket.

"Okay, okay, I'll keep my hands off the tie, scout's honor," Spike promises with a wink. Grinning, Dawn gives him a quick hug and dashes around the edge of the seats and toward the back of the sanctuary.

"Actually, since Dawn suggested it, eliminating the blighter isn't a half-bad thought, to be honest," Giles says the moment Dawn is out of earshot, his eyes returning to Hank Summers. "I think even Angel would help you hide the body."

"Not you too!" whispers Spike disapprovingly. "I'll go _talk_ to him, get him to see that showin' up after all these years is like slappin' her and Dawnie in the face."

"And if he refuses to leave?"

"S'pose I'll have to be more persuasive then," Spike shrugs. "Well, see you at the alter, Rupert."

With a genuine smile of friendship, Giles extends his hand and shakes Spike's. "You're a changed man, William. I'm ever so sorry I doubted you . . . and tried to have you killed," he tacks on, noticeably embarrassed.

"No hard feelings, Watcher," Spike grins, then steels himself as he glances back over to Hank Summers. "On to battle, then."

Giles departs along the same route as Dawn, and Spike traverses the sanctuary and approaches the unwanted guest, sitting in a pew several rows from the front.

"Hank Summers?" he inquires, somewhat hoping that they're all mistaken in the man's identity.

"That's me," the stranger says, looking up and assessing Spike's tuxedo and the rose in his lapel. "You must be the groom."

"Er . . . yes, I'm William," says Spike, suppressing a scowl. Though Buffy would never admit such a thing, and though Giles has done his best to be a father figure, Spike knows how much his beloved has suffered since her dad went AWOL, probably shed many a tear over it. And anyone who makes Buffy suffer is vying for a death-wish.

"Well, you're a lucky man, William. There're aren't many girls in the world like my Buffy."

'_My_ Buffy, you mean' is Spike's immediate thought, but he bites his tongue.

Hank Summers offers his hand to Spike, who takes it, still fixing his soon-to-be father-in-law with a piercing gaze. They shake briefly.

"Cold hands, dear fellow," says Mr. Summers, visibly surprised by the fierceness in Spike's cool blue eyes and the chill of his undead fingers. "Hope you're not getting cold feet as well."

"Not a bit. To be frank, _sir_ . . ." Spike takes a threatening step closer and lowers his voice, "I've loved your daughter a helluva lot better than you have these last six years. I was here for her and Dawnie when Joyce died, which didn't seem to matter two quid to you. I've been by her side through hell on earth, literally. So no, Summers, I don't 'ave cold feet at all. But you should . . ."

He only transforms for a fraction of a second – just enough for Hank Summers to see the demonic yellow eyes and the bones surfacing in his forehead, the ivory fangs extending in Spike's wicked smile – then returns to his human countenance so quickly that anyone who was not looking directly at him wouldn't have noticed a thing. Mr. Summers turns as pale as if all his blood has drained out through his socks.

"What . . . you . . ."

"I suggest you leave before _my bride_ comes in," Spike advises with the tiniest of snarls. "Her _real_ father's already here, you see." He indicates Giles, standing at the foot of the central aisle waiting dutifully to be admitted back to the bride's suite. "Do we understand each other, Summers?"

"I . . . What . . . did you . . . are you throwing me out of my own daughter's wedding?" he splutters, still scrutinizing Spike's face for any hints of the frightening features that he hopes he had merely imagined.

"Right about sums it up. Need directions to the door?" Spike asks pointedly, baring his human teeth in a threatening smile.

"Now see here, William, I . . . my daughter . . ."

A quiet inhuman growl ripples through Spike's throat, and Mr. Summers becomes, if possible, even paler.

"I . . . no . . . no, thank you. I'll see myself out."

Snatching up his wedding program, Hank Summers flees the sanctuary, leaving several other guests staring in bewilderment after him.

Giving a soft sigh of relief, Spike looks around the congregation as he strolls up the aisle to take his place at the front. He makes eye contact with several of the Potentials-now-Slayers, the girls who had resided in Buffy's house. They've all heard the story now: how he saved the world, how the amulet bridled his demon power and used him like a sunlight focusing lens to kill the Turok-Han and destroy the Hellmouth. The girls all look at him with various levels of awe . . . except Kennedy, who is craning her neck towards the back, waiting for the first glimpse of Willow.

As Spike nears the front of the sanctuary, he notices Robin Wood and Andrew taking their seats now that their ushering duties are over. Andrew gives him an encouraging wave and a thumbs-up, while Robin – his face solemn but with just a fraction of a smile – briefly inclines his head to Spike. It may not be a sign of friendship, but it's definitely the start of forgiveness and mutual respect, and Spike knows he couldn't ask any more yet from the man whose mother he killed all those years ago.

Focusing back on the present, Spike passes Clem, who waves a floppy hand, and then observes Angel's coworkers on the far side of an aisle: Gunn, Fred, and Wesley, who all seem to be here solely for Angel's morale support. Finally, he reaches the two groomsmen – Xander smiling, Angel obviously brooding.

"Almost time," Spike says quietly to Xander. "Got the rings, right?"

"Faith sewed them inside my tux pocket. I'm glad I noticed and loosened them up, otherwise I would have left you guys hanging a while during the ceremony until I fished them out."

Spike laughs nervously and runs a finger across his upper lip, surprised when it comes away sweaty, his hand visually trembling.

"Sunlight might be gettin' to me after all," he mutters, glancing apprehensively at the stained-glass windows in the bright church sanctuary.

"It's not the sun, Spike," Xander says confidently. "Cold sweats, clammy hands. That's just good ol' wedding jitters. Come to think of it, you've already gotten farther than I did. How ya holding up, champ?"

"Can almost feel my heart racin'," Spike admits, his grin filling his face. "I . . . I'm really getting married, mate. Buffy's really marrying me."

"She sure is. Any last bachelor words?"

An organ behind the alter begins the opening strains of Pachelbel's _Canon in D_ to announce the bridesmaids. Spike turns so he's standing parallel to Xander, with Angel behind them. At this distance he can only distinguish between Faith, Dawn, and Willow by their respective hair colors, but he gazes past them, watching the double doors at the back of the sanctuary. He whispers four little words, too quiet for even Xander to hear him.

"Here comes the bride . . ."

* * *

**A minute previously**

"'Bout time you showed up, Giles," Faith mutters as the Watcher appears at the doorway to the bride's suite. "Another half minute and _I'd_ have to be the one giving B away to Blondie."

"Fat chance. If it got to that point, I'd just run up, grab Spike, and we'd drive over to Vegas and elope," Buffy retorts, earning a wide smile from Giles.

"Faith, will you give us a moment, please?" he asks. Faith rolls her eyes and readjusts her dress to enhance her cleavage.

"You're screwing my timing, Rupes," she warns, but compromisingly picks up her bouquet and moves to the door. "Fine. I'll leave. Just don't miss your cue."

"I think we'll recognize the tune," he says in an appeasing voice. "Honestly," he mutters as soon as the door closes behind Faith, "whatever possessed us to make her the head wedding planner?"

"Beats me," Buffy shrugs. "She was the best we could get on such short notice, and she didn't fight with Willow about anything too major."

Seemingly only half listening, Giles sighs, removes his glasses more slowly than usual, and wipes the lenses repeatedly.

"You look splendid, Buffy, dear."

"Thanks, Giles," she smiles, looking up into his careworn face. "Uh-oh. You're not gonna cry, right? Because if you start crying, I'm gonna start crying, and then Faith will start hurting people, both of us first."

"No, no, I'm quite alright . . . oh, dash it all, I do believe I am going to cry." He pinches the bridge of his nose to hold his tears at bay. "It's . . . oh, my dear Buffy . . . I'm not quite sure what to say to convey how very happy I am for you."

"Never thought we'd get this far, did'ya?" she smirks, trying her hardest to keep her own eyes tear-free.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. I had every confidence in our survival instincts," says Giles, feigning offense. "It's just . . . every Watcher periodically wonders how long he will have with his Slayer, and what sort of ending their relationship will have."

"I'm getting married, Giles. I'm not retiring, and I'm not dying, again."

"I know, and that's why I'm so remarkably happy, Buffy. You've found a way to unite your Slayer life and your regular life, and you followed your heart and your instincts, regardless of what the people around you demanded or suggested. I'm so very proud of you, Buffy."

Joyful tears flowing freely, Giles leans over and gives Buffy's forehead a fatherly kiss.

"Careful," she advises, her own tears barely restrained. "Smudge anything, and Faith'll eat you alive."

"Right, of course," he agrees, straightening up and offering her his arm. Willow cracks open the door to the suite, her face aglow with happiness.

"I remembered that your train is probably a two-helper job," she says, indicating Buffy's long skirt. "The sanctuary has double-doors, but one snag here and everything goes kabloo-y. Here . . ."

Giles holds the door open for the two young women, and Willow gathers the silky folds of Buffy's train, laying it out flat again once they all pass through the door.

"Ya'know, I think this is the longest stretch of time that I haven't seen Spike since the battle," Buffy says to Willow, smiling wistfully. "We've been inseparable."

"He hasn't aged much," she smirks back. "And you won't have long to wait now. T minus one minute and counting, Houston."

"All systems go."

Beaming, Willow ignores the likelihood of Faith-wrath and hugs Buffy around the shoulders, stepping back quickly to straighten her veil and make sure the rose bouquet doesn't look crushed.

"You're fine, you're fine," she blubbers as Dawn and Faith open the double-doors and take their places nearby.

"Showtime, B," says Faith. "Last chance to back out if you wanna. I'm kidding, actually, if you back out after all my hard work . . ."

"You'll kill me, I know," Buffy cuts her off, rolling her eyes. "And I so hoped to marry the man I love out of my own free will this time," she winks at Willow.

"This is an all natural wedding, I swear. No apocalypse, magic, or GMOs."

"Music's up," Faith reminds them as an organ begins playing in the sanctuary. "Time for us to hit the dance floor, Dawnie."

Dawn answers with a nod, pausing quickly to squeeze Buffy's hand before taking her place in their queue of red gowns.

Her arm secure in Giles's, Buffy watches Faith, Dawn, and finally Willow begin walking gracefully down the aisle. The closing notes of _Canon in D_ fade, and the congregation stands, anticipating her arrival. As the _Wedding March_ starts, Buffy grins, thinking of a different kind of "rising music": the residual effects of the demon Sweet's enchantment on Sunnydale that had formed a backdrop to her first passionate kiss with Spike. She doubts whether any other couple could boast having such extreme highs and lows over just this last two year span the way she and Spike have. Guess that's just a shortcoming to falling in love on a Hellmouth.

Step by step, note by familiar note, Buffy and Giles approach the front of the sanctuary, flanked by the blend of strangers and dear friends. But Buffy only has eyes for one. At last, green eyes find the blue.

Spike swears his formerly unbeating heart kick-starts and revs into 5th gear as his eyes take in every beautiful inch of Buffy, from her golden hair and glowing smile to her shimmering, white gown. Sunlight is nothing compared to her. Buffy is equally enamored with the gorgeous chaos of Spike's platinum curls, the white tie and collar contrasting his seemingly less-pale skin, the expression of immeasurable love and devotion in his face.

Her eyes never breaking contact with Spike's, Buffy feels her fingers leave Giles's arm of their own accord and intertwine with her lover's cool ones. They face each other and, at the minister's direction, speak words that are both so well-rehearsed that they flow from their immediate memory without much bidding, but are still genuine, entirely from their hearts.

"_Do you, William, take this woman_ . . ."

_Slayer_ . . .

"I do."

"_Do you, Buffy, take this man_ . . ."

_Champion_ . . .

"I do."

"With this ring, I, William Pratt . . ."

"With this ring, I, Buffy Summers . . ."

"_As long as you both shall live_."

"As long as we both shall live.

"_I now pronounce you, husband and wife. William, you may kiss your bride_ . . ."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry if it seems like I'm dragging it out! I just figured you readers might like multiple short installments better than few longer installments with a lot of blank time in between. I will do my best to have the next part out in a shorter amount of time than this one was. :)**


	8. Chapter 8: Worship, part 1

**A/N: **This just keeps getting longer and longer! I had no idea the wedding would turn into at least a four parter! Spike and Buffy's wedding day continues with much merriment! Just a heads up that there will be some border-line smut throughout and especially at the end, as much as I feel comfortable writing! ;) You're welcome.

[Randomness: I'm hyper-fangirling because James Marsters' son, Sullivan, liked a comment I put on one of the Ghost of the Robot pictures on facebook! It's one where James is signing autographs and it looks like he's using Force Persuade, so I put 'Jedi Master James Marsters: "This is the concert you're looking for."' And his SON liked it! *squeee*]

Okay, okay, onto the wedding reception! Reviews are always appreciated; even as simple as one word. Feedback is what really inspires me to keep writing. Thank you everyone who reviews, follows, favorites, or even glances at my fics. :)

**As always, all rights belong to Joss Whedon & networks. **

* * *

**Chapter 8: "Worship, part 1" (Season 8, Episode 4, Acts I-IV)**

"_I now pronounce you, husband and wife. William, you may kiss your bride_ . . ."

The look in Spike's eyes is one of absolute contentment and infinite love. He tenderly lifts his hands to the sides of her face, cupping her cheeks with his palms, and she responds by weaving her arms around his waist. It takes all of Buffy's self-control not to throw herself on him – like she would have done during the desperate stage of their relationship – but she knows she'll enjoy it more if he takes the lead.

"I love you," Spike breathes, his lips mere millimeters from hers.

"I love you," she replies, feeling his mouth press to hers the moment the words slip out, so that their declarations of love are part of the caress, sealing it. They ignore the watching world and kiss gently but deeply, drinking in the familiar taste of each other, heedless of the elapsing time.

Eventually, someone in the congregation wolf-whistles, and benign laugher breaks out among their closest friends. Slightly pink in the face, Buffy breaks the kiss only because she can't help smiling. Spike brushes his lips across the corner of her grin before pulling her against him and hugging her tightly.

The whole sanctuary breaks into applause, guests rising from their benches. After Willow hands Buffy her bouquet back, the minister announces in a voice that is barely heard over the clapping, "I present Mr. and Mrs. William Summers!"

Grinning with a blend of triumph and elation, Spike tucks Buffy's arm into the crook of his elbow and leads her down the central aisle. The groomsmen and bridesmaids pair up and follow behind them – Willow arm-in-arm with Xander, Dawn practically skipping besides Giles, and Faith leading Angel in the back.

"Right this way everyone," Andrew calls out helpfully, directing the flow of attendees from the sanctuary. Robin awaits at the next bend in the hallway, guiding the crowd into the reception area, where a gaggle of waiters carry trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne glasses around the tables.

"Okay," Faith instructs the wedding party, her unusually uptight attitude resurfacing, "Andrew, Robin, and the catering people will keep that lot occupied with cocktails while we take pictures, then you lovebirds can go in and greet everybody after Xand gives the toast. Then, uh . . ." she pauses, thinking through the schedule in her head.

"Dancing is next," Willow reminds her. "Then the bouquet and garter, more dancing, and then cake!"

"Aw, you didn't include massacring the townsfolk in the master schedule? Shame," says Angel sarcastically, earning a terse cough from Giles.

Ignoring the discussion around them, Spike leans over and kisses the back of Buffy's ear.

"Want to slip away, luv?" he whispers, eyes closing as he gives her earlobe a series of tiny nips. "Somewhere . . . quiet-like?"

Stimulated by his intimate touch, Buffy realizes how much not seeing him for almost an entire day has caused her craving for him to skyrocket. She turns her head and meets his lips with her own. He gives a throaty chuckle at her enthusiasm, and she responds by backing him into the nearest wall, kissing unrestrainedly all the while. She splays her fingers on his chest while his hands grip her shoulders, pulling her body flush against him.

"Someone order a space heater?" Xander asks in amusement, his back half-turned to the smooching couple. A few seconds of awkward near-silence elapse, punctuated by faint moans as Spike and Buffy kiss fervently. Giles attempts and fails to shield Dawn's eyes with a hand.

"Oh, pul-ease, I'm not twelve. I know about _tongue_," she retorts, swatting his hand away. She grins at her sister and new brother-in-law, hopping up and down on the balls of her feet. "Where's a camera when I need it?!"

"Yeah, you'd be well-stocked for many blackmailing opportunities later in life," Angel observes loudly.

"Who's . . . blackmailing?" Buffy says to no one in particular, her words slurred since her mouth is still entangled with Spike's. Somehow a cheap camera appears in Dawn's possession and she immediately snaps away merrily.

"By pictures we meant professional, wedding party pictures, Dawnie," Willow explains, looking down the hallway to see if the photographer is ready in the pre-appointed room. "I wanted to do them outside, but . . ." she shrugs disapprovingly at Angel, who scowls.

"Hey! Don't look at me like it's _my_ fault about the whole burning-to-a-crisp issue!"

"_My_ pictures first," Dawn demands of the married couple, clicking incessantly. The many interruptions finally cause Buffy to unglue her lips from her husband's, and she contents herself with resting her forehead against his, unwilling to fully separate herself from him just yet.

"Oh, give us half a minute, for God's sake," Spike whispers, an almost desperate look in his dazzling eyes as he glances at Giles and Xander, seeking their empathy. Faith snorts.

"Like you could _possibly_ get it on in half –?"

"Not what he is implying, Faith," Giles cuts off her suggestive remark. "Willow, Dawn, let us all proceed for preliminary photographs and then Spike and Buffy will join us when they're ready."

"Fine," says the secondary Slayer, pointing a warning finger into Spike's face, "but if you crinkle B's dress, I'm gonna make it _real_ hard for you to enjoy yourself tonight, Blondie."

With the three bridesmaids leading the way, Xander claps a hand on Angel's cold shoulder and pseudo-manhandles him down the hall away from the couple, Giles bringing up the rear. The moment the door of the photographer's room closes, Buffy nearly slams Spike back against the wall, their kisses considerably louder now that they are alone.

"Easy, luv," he murmurs, grinning. "Don't think the minister'd be too happy if you shoved me through the drywall."

With both arms wrapped tightly around his neck, she looks into his shining eyes, knowing her cheeks must be aglow with arousal. "I'm not sure I care about that right now."

His throat rumbles with amused agreement as they resume kissing, her tongue dancing against his lips, his fingers drawing little swirls against the small of her back.

"How long'd they say the reception'll last?" Spike asks when they pause to breathe.

"I'm not sure. Willow might have said three hours."

He groans audibly and merges his cool lips with Buffy's again, filling his mouth with the sweet, heady taste of her. Buffy coyly runs one hand in a slow line straight down the middle of his chest, down his stomach, to just between his hips. She feels a quiet shudder run through him and watches his eyes roll up in expectation, but at the last second changes the path of her hand and flattens her palm against the front of his right thigh.

"Ooh, luv, you torture me," he says in almost a whimper, his hips bucking out from the wall towards her hand. Buffy giggles.

"Just getting you warmed up," she replies playfully, her other hand toying with the curls at the nape of his neck. With another of his seductive throaty chuckles, Spike lifts Buffy's hand off his upper leg and draws her fingers to his lips, kissing her wedding band and the diamond-and-ruby engagement ring.

"Are we ever going to stop being so happy?" he asks quietly, his soft breath a delight against her skin, his cool lips brushing the crevices between her fingers.

"Not a chance," Buffy smiles, drawing his head down for another kiss.

"Dreadfully sorry to interrupt," Giles's voice calls from down the hallway, as if he is too embarrassed to approach them, "but according to Faith's impeccable internal stopwatch, it has now been half a minute, and our lives are all in terrible danger unless you join us for pictures."

"A'right, Watcher! If we must," Spike mutters, smiling as he leans over to pick up Buffy's dropped bouquet off the floor. He admires the slightly crumpled bundle of roses. "Red for passion, white for reverence . . ."

With sudden urgency, he draws his free arm around her back and hugs her tight against him. "The moment we give the planning lot the slip, I'm going to take you upstairs and worship every last inch of you."

"Now!" yells Faith, who, unlike Giles, is quite willing to get in the lovers' way. Chortling, Spike and Buffy mostly separate themselves, smooth down their wedding apparel and, still arm-in-arm, traverse the hallway to the awaiting photography room.

"Well at least I had the foresight to put Buffy in nude lipstick," Willow comments as soon as they enter, observing the smudged glossy area around Spike's mouth and setting the married couple laughing again. Once Faith repairs Buffy's makeup, the photographer and his lighting assistant arrange and rearrange them into every conceivable combination of the wedding party – the couple alone; joined by Giles and Dawn; the latter two exchanged for Xander and Willow; the bride and bridesmaids; groom and groomsmen – until everyone's smiles are thoroughly stiff.

"Can we even _use_ the ones with Angel?" Xander asks, giving in to the frustration after what feels to everyone like twenty minutes of photographs.

"I show up on pictures!" the brooding brunette retorts. "Film doesn't work the same as mirrors."

"I s'spect he meant that none of us are likely to want your unpleasant scowl on our fireplace mantles, mate," Spike interprets, causing Dawn to burst into giggles and disastrously spoil the next picture.

"Alright, alright, you sillies," Willow concedes. "Enough pictures. You can go into the reception hall now, but I want to watch your faces when you see it!"

Leaving Faith to handle concluding business with the photographer, the witch and Dawn scurry away excitedly towards the hall. Spike laughs, wrapping his arms around Buffy from behind.

"Awful cheery, those two," he whispers, kissing her ear again.

"Guess we should go see what all the fuss is about," she sighs, leaning her head back on his shoulder and enjoying his lips nuzzling her neck. "I wish we could just be alone, Spike."

"So do I, luv. Just got to last a few more hours."

Followed by Xander and Giles, they leave the camera-strewn room and stroll back down the hallway to the reception auditorium. When they enter at last, even Spike has to admit that Willow and Faith have outdone themselves. The church auditorium is bedecked with the same white and red roses that are in Buffy's bouquet, adorning many white circular tables that surround the dance floor. White gauzy fabric spirals around the room's columns, candles in little glasses set a muted, romantic tone, and in the far corner stands the cake, a miniature mountain of white, black, and red frosting.

Buffy lets Spike do all the maneuvering, content to just enjoy the feeling of his strong sleeved arm beneath her hand and the radiance in his eyes every time he turns his face toward her. Finally they reach the head of the reception room and take their places in the two middle chairs of the wedding party's table, facing the rest of the auditorium.

"No magic?" Buffy smirks skeptically at Willow as the rest of the wedding party joins them at the head table.

"Why does no one believe that I didn't use any magic?" the young witch demands, turning away from Buffy for a moment to beckon Kennedy to join their table.

"Well, maybe just a little _financial_ magic," Angel says with an uncharacteristic wink as he pulls out a chair for Faith and then sits between her and Giles. Faith briefly scowls at him and reaches for her champagne glass.

"So, you like it?" Willow asks nervously, eyes jumping back and forth between Buffy and Spike.

"A'course we do, Red," Spike answers for them both. "No one could've done better."

"Pictures! Pictures!" Dawn squeals, brandishing another camera that must have been planted at her seat for the express purpose of annoying everyone else. She runs around to the front of the wedding party's table and trains her lens on Spike and Buffy. "Okay, now kiss!"

"Thought you were fed up with the photoshoot for one day, Niblet," laughs Spike, adjusting his chair closer to Buffy's. "Besides, gotta ask my fair lady's permission –"

"Oh, kiss me already," Buffy demands happily, tugging Spike by his bow-tie until his lips meet hers. He glides one hand against the back of her head, fingers entwining in her golden hair, while his other hand brushes chilly tingles down her bare arm, eliciting a soft sound of pleasure from his bride.

"Okay, cool it, you too," Xander chuckles at them while Dawn clicks away at the camera. "Innocent eye, here. And Andrew's filming too."

Spike sharply sits up in his chair and looks around with a glint of anger at being interrupted. Sure enough, Andrew is halfway across the reception area with a video camera firmly attached to his hand.

"Soddin' intrusive little bugger . . ."

"Psh! Who cares?" asks Buffy. She scoots her chair until it's completely adjacent to Spike's, encircles his waist with her arms, and leans over with her head against his chest.

"Just don't you dare tell him our suite number, you ponce," Spike says, giving Angel a warning glare. The older vampire dramatically draws an X over his heart with one finger, then holds up his hand like a court witness.

"Ready for the toast, Xander?" asks Giles, observing that all the remaining wedding attendees have arranged themselves around the tables, enjoying drinks and appetizers.

"Sure thing, boss."

Giles stands and clinks his spoon against his champagne glass until silence falls over the room.

"Everyone, thank you for joining us on this most joyous occasion," says the Watcher, his gaze traversing the room from Andrew and Robin closing the doors, to Clem sitting by a confused-looking Wesley Wyndam-Price and Fred, and across all the strangers between the two extremes. "Before we begin the greeting and dancing, Alexander Harris, our best man, would like to say a few words."

Xander stands with his glass in one hand and a cordless microphone – courtesy of Faith – in the other.

"Hey everybody," he begins nervously, confidence building as he moves further through his semi-prepared speech. "So, uh . . . I've known Lil' Miss Buffy for seven years, since we were high school students together at the old Sunnydale High, before that, uh, giant snake incident. Haven't known Spike for quite that long, and, er, for some of that we weren't exactly what you might call friends, but after the stuff that's happened over the last six months or so, when he asked me to be best man, I didn't hesitate at all."

Buffy can tell Spike is smiling as he kisses the top of her head, both of them watching Xander, listening contentedly to his view of their love life.

"To be honest, Buffy and Spike were the two people I thought _least_ likely to fall madly in love. When I first met Buffy, she was super busy with sla- . . . school and stuff. And Spike was kinda . . . scary . . ."

Giggling, Dawn whispers to Willow, "Come on, is there _anybody_ here that doesn't already know Buffy's the Slayer and Spike's a vampire? Do we even care anymore about the secret-keeping crap since the Council got blown-up?"

"Shh, not now," hisses Willow, focusing rapturously on her long-time friend, her second round of re-applied mascara already running down her cheeks.

"Anyway," Xander continues, "when they first met, Buff and Spike were both interested in other people, who both turned out to be evil and left Sunnydale."

"I resent that. I didn't stay evil," Angel pouts in a whisper.

"Oh, shut up, Gel," Faith snorts at him over her half-empty champagne glass.

"But then Spike reformed, and we got to know him better. He fell crazily in love with Buffy, and for a while that was just annoying, but . . . he supported her during some of the hardest times of her life, more than any of us could understand. Spike earned her love. She trusts him and depends on him. And . . . all I can say is they're going to be incredibly happy together for a long, long time. Buff, Spike, congratulations."

Xander lifts his champagne with a nod to the couple, and all around the room glasses are raised in their honor and their names are repeated. Spike reaches forward for both their glasses, and they drink with arms entwined.

"Thank you everyone," Willow says in a teary voice, seizing hold of the microphone as Xander downs his glass in one gulp and sits down. "If the DJ will please start the song for the couple's dance . . ."

"Say, Willow, what song did you pick?" Buffy asks, suddenly realizing that she probably should have kept track of this potentially important piece of the wedding plan.

With surely the widest grin she's had all day, Willow shakes her head. "Spike picked it."

"Oh, really," says Buffy skeptically, staring with raised eyebrows at her husband.

"Won't take you long to recognize the tune, luv," he smiles as a violin begins playing on the DJ's track. He stands, bows, and offers his hand to his wife.

* * *

**A/N:** I'll get the next part done as soon as I can! April Camp NaNoWriMo starts in two days!


	9. Chapter 9: Worship, part 2

**A/N: **Obligatory warning for some mildly naughty (or technically not naughty, because they're married now, after all) Spuffy action in this chapter. ;)

The idea for the first song came about because my roommates and I were listening to Pandora Radio while cooking for our Easter potluck, and this song came on and we all started singing . . . and I thought it was ironically perfect for Spike and Buffy. Kudos to _Boolochka06_ for the suggestion of 'Wind Beneath My Wings', which made me chuckle. ;)

I thought this was going to be the _last_ part . . . but once again more bits and pieces kept popping into my brain, so . . . Surprise! This is the _second-to-last_ chapter, and it's nice and long!

**As always, all rights belong to Joss Whedon.** [Also, I haven't watched Angel, so I honestly don't know if Buffy has met his coworkers before. Sorry for any continuity mistakes!]

* * *

**Chapter 9: "Worship, part 2" (Season 8, Episode 4, Acts III-IV)**

The elegant violin tune sounds so very familiar, but Buffy can't place it. Her hand in Spike's, she rises from her chair and accompanies him to the center of the dance floor. He slips his right arm around her waist and draws her against him, their other hands entwined between their chests.

"It's not _Wind Beneath My Wings_, right? Because I was _totally_ kidding about liking that song," she hisses nervously. He snickers in a mischievous tone, kissing her forehead.

"Mentioned it at one point, but Red gave a look like she would've throttled me, and for the life of me I can't see what you fancy in that awful tune, luv."

Relieved, Buffy listens intently, still wondering what song Spike _did_ pick for their opening dance.

"Have to warn you, my sweet," he admits, lips still kneading gently against her forehead, "been a good long while since I was a Nancy-boy and took dancing lessons, but Dawnie gave me pointers on the waltz, so I'll do my best."

He stops speaking to let her listen as a grandmotherly female voice joins the violin, and one line of lyrics is enough for her to recognize the song at last.

_'Tale as old as time_ . . .'

"You didn't!" she whispers, snorting quietly in his ear. Back at the wedding party's table, Faith is doubled over with silent laughter, Angel looks like his eyes might unhinge themselves from over-rolling, and Dawn and Willow just look pleased fit to explode.

"Did so," Spike smirks, guiding Buffy in slow tiny circles around the center of the dance floor. "Gave it a lot of thought, mind."

"'Beauty and the Beast'? _That_'s what you picked for our first dance?"

"As I live and breathe."

"Well, technically . . ."

Chuckling, he closes her mouth with a kiss. She gives in to the feel of his cool lips, barely aware of her feet moving beneath her, swaying back and forth in time with the song.

'_Just a little change . . . small to say the least . . ._'

"You're _not_ a beast, Spike," Buffy whispers to him as the second verse of the song begins, her pale green eyes staring deeply into his effulgent blue ones.

"_Was_, though," Spike replies sincerely, his hand gently steering her at the waist. "I was all kinds of monster, Buffy. Wasn't just the demon havin' a couple of laughs at the expense of a few throats. I never felt _alive_ 'till after I was dead and could do whatever I wanted. Took me a hundred years of chaos to realize there was something else . . . some_one_ else worth living for. You."

Moved by his sweet words, Buffy glides her left hand from his shoulder up the fabric of his collar to his face, his cheekbone fitting perfectly in her palm, fingertips just twirling in the curls at his ear. They abandon the more structured waltz and continue with just a slow dance, minds and bodies wrapped in each other, ignoring the other couples that gradually appear at the edges of the dance floor. As her arms lock around his neck, Spike's cool hands curl eagerly against Buffy's lower back, seeking the skin beneath the silken white fabric, and her body responds inherently, leaning forward into him.

"Careful now, pet," he chuckles, one hand lazily skimming further down her back. "You sure know how to tempt a fella."

"You . . . started . . . it," she murmurs, eyelids fluttering closed, desire running through all her bones.

"See now, I distinctly remember _you_ groping _me_ back in the hallway, luv," he reminds her saucily, his lips leisurely tracing down her hairline by her right ear.

"I . . . did . . . not . . . ohh, Spike . . ."

His arms constrict slightly to pull her hips forward into his, and she gives a quick, quiet gasp that relaxes into a moan, feeling the heat at his core.

"Spike, not here . . ." she whimpers feebly. "We've still got at least half the reception left . . ."

"Like you said, pet," he grins, reluctantly relaxing his embrace, "just getting warmed up for tonight."

The familiar music ends to rapturous applause as Spike and Buffy exchange another deep kiss in the center of the dance floor. Then the DJ raises the music's volume and switches to a more modern tune, and dancing and casual conversations break out all around the reception hall. With their inseparable arms around each other's waists, Buffy and Spike return to the table at the head of the room.

"That was so beautiful, you two," Willow gushes, pink in the face from her own brief dance with Kennedy.

"Thanks, Will," smiles Buffy, contentedly leaning back against Spike, her heart still racing and her face flushed. "So, what dastardly torture do you have scheduled for us next?"

"You're off the hook for a bit. Just sit here, have some food, let people congratulate you, and don't get too . . . you know."

Spike's eyebrows rise wickedly. "Too _what_, Red? Gotta give a bloke his boundaries or he might . . . break all the rules."

Eyes sparkling, he nibbles on the velvet-soft lobe of Buffy's ear, earning a delighted giggle from Buffy and a warning look from Willow.

"Just . . . behave yourself. Don't . . . don't do anything you wouldn't want to see a boy doing with Dawn."

Outrage appears on the faces of both husband and wife at this suggestion, and they immediately turn a verbal barrage on the witch.

"Oh, come off it! That'd mean I can't _touch_ her at all!" Spike complains.

"No boys are allowed anywhere near Dawnie!"

"Yeh, I'll bite the head off any whelp who so much as _thinks_ of pawing the Niblet!"

"My point exactly," Willow shouts, waving her hands to try to calm them. "Just chat with all your well-wishers and rein yourselves in. Plenty of fun to be had tonight."

Grumbling to himself as Willow walks away, Spike pulls out Buffy's chair for her and then collapses into his own seat.

"Should've done things my way," he mutters tersely, spearing a fork into the contents of his plate. "Private ceremony . . . or better yet, just run over to the nearest courthouse the minute we crawled out'a that crater. None'a this waitin' around, self-controlled, hands-off rubbish."

"It is awfully fun to tease you, though," Buffy confesses. Maintaining steady eye-contact with her frustrated husband, she impales a piece of deviled egg on the tip of her fork, draws it near to her mouth, and then distinctly licks one edge of it. Spike's eyes seem to water, fixated with the movements of her little pink tongue.

"Sweet heavens, Buffy, I swear I'll carry you upstairs and throw you onto the nearest sodding bed right this moment if you don't stop –"

"Buffy, Spike," Angel suddenly interrupts, nearing their table from the left side of the dance floor. He gestures to three nervous-looking individuals standing just behind him. "These are my coworkers from Angel Investigations. You both know Wesley, and this is Winifred Burkle, or 'Fred'," – he indicates a petite young woman with large brown eyes – "and Charles Gunn" – a stern man that reminds Buffy of Forrest, one of the Initiative commandoes.

"Thank you all for coming," says Buffy, since Spike is still too fixated on the thought of what she had just done with her tongue to make light conversation with the senior members of Angel Investigations.

"It's an honor to finally meet you, Buffy," says the girl named Fred politely. Wesley and Gunn merely nod from behind Angel.

Spike, meanwhile, swallows the contents of his champagne glass in one swig and gives all four of the Los Angeles residents a look that states, very clearly, '_Will the lot of you sod off so I can take my wife upstairs and make love to her for many consecutive hours?_'

"Alright everyone, pay attention now, please!"

Willow's amplified voice interjects from across the room, silencing the DJ. The cordless microphone is back in her possession. Apparently, the sight of Angel and Co near the irate-looking Spike is her cue to proceed with the reception agenda. "It's time for the bouquet and garter tosses! Single ladies in the center of the dance floor!"

She sets the mike aside and rushes up to Buffy with a smaller bundle of roses that match the ones in her bouquet and the general decor. "Here! This one's for tossing. That way you can keep your original as a souvenir."

"Good thinking, Will. And, uh . . . while I'm throwing this, can you arrange to get Spike some . . . blood? I think he's going to need something stronger than liquid courage to keep it together."

Willow takes another look at Spike's fuming face and nods. "Already thought of that too. I just sent Giles to go get some."

"Will, you're an absolute saint," Buffy gushes, hugging her maid of honor around the shoulders.

"That's me, Saint Rosenberg," Willow beams back. "Patron of witches, Slayers, and brides to vampires!"

"If we offer you some nummy human sacrifices, can we shorten this infernal reception, O Most Mighty St Rosenberg?" Spike petitions, feigning piety with his palms held together in front of his chest, making simpering eyes at Willow.

"No," the redhead retorts in amusement. "Quit whining. There aren't that many things left to do anyway. Just bouquet, garter, cake . . . and, Buffy, you _have_ to dance at least one dance each with Xander, Giles, and Angel."

"What? Over my dead body, Red!" snarls Spike when the Great Poof's name is mentioned.

"Spike, you _are_ dead. And anyway, Dawn wants to dance with _you_ after Clem and Xander, so don't think you're getting out of anything."

Willow flounces away to corral the group of contending bachelorettes, consisting mostly of the new Slayers and Buffy's younger sister.

"I swear we're havin' Dawnie's wedding outside in broad daylight," Spike says gruffly, glaring across the reception hall at Angel. "Er, not that we'll ever _let_ the Niblet get married," he suddenly backtracks, his eyes meeting Buffy's skeptical expression, "but on the off chance that she does, Captain Forehead's _not_ on the guestlist."

"We'll see," she smirks, getting up from her chair and planting a gentle kiss on his lips. "So, who should I try to hit with the bouquet?"

"Now, now, luv, that'd be cheatin'," he says, teasingly disapproving. "Gotta do it right, leave it up to fate."

"Uh-huh, and there can only be one Slayer alive at a time, too. Fate, shmate!"

With her nose in the air, Buffy merrily gathers the silky train of her white dress so she won't trip and walks around the head table toward the awaiting girls.

"Ready?"

A chorus of "Yes"s answers her, and Buffy turns her back to the girls, internally reminding herself not to use Slayer strength when throwing the light bundle of flowers. As the bouquet leaves her hands and sails into the air over her shoulder, she hears a quick burst of competitive squeals among the Slayer junior league. To her complete surprise, when she turns around it is _Faith_ with the bouquet in her hands, standing slack-jawed in her sleeveless crimson bridesmaid's dress.

"But I didn't _mean_ to catch it!" she protests, holding the bouquet like it's an armed bomb. Buffy can hear Spike laughing uproariously back at the table.

"Guess it's just fate, Faith," Buffy smirks, far more pleased than if she had intentionally thrown the wedding favor towards any particular person.

Livid and embarrassed, Faith uses the mini-bouquet as a policeman's baton to wave the rest of the girls out of the way. "Okay, okay, clear the floor, snipes! Time for the man's toss. Bring a chair over, will'ya Blondie?"

Happily obliging, Spike lifts the nearest folding chair over his shoulder, and strolls toward Buffy, his gait playfully predatory, shoulders swaying sultrily. He sets down the chair where Faith indicates, and Buffy sits, smoothing down her dress and hoping that her face isn't already flaming red.

As soon as Xander, Angel, and the other unmarried men form a cluster several yards behind him, Spike grins wickedly and kneels between Buffy's legs.

"This nearly makes the waiting worth it," he snickers, his right hand lifting the hem of her dress and feeling the silk-smooth skin of her ankle.

"Please tell me someone took that video camera away from Andrew," Buffy hisses to him, now absolutely certain that her cheeks are rosy.

"Why, pet? You've nothin' at all to be ashamed of," he whispers back as his hand moves higher, cool fingers skimming the back of her calf. "You don't even need to know that lot is watchin' us. Here . . ."

He sits up a little straighter, scooting forward so that his chest is level with her waist. "Now . . . close your eyes . . ."

Obeying as if hypnotized by his enchanting, loving smile, Buffy shuts her eyes, tucks her chin, and finds his lips blindly. Sure enough, kissing Spike completely takes her mind off the watching crowd of wedding attendees. Only after half a minute does she realize that Spike's hand has paused beneath her dress.

"Which leg, luv?" he asks quietly, his mouth still melding with hers.

"Hmm . . .?"

"Buffy, which leg is your garter on?"

"Um . . ." she reflects, trying to recall how she had been standing when Willow had supplied this particular indelicate item. All the while his hand is slipping higher up between her thighs.

"You don't remember?" A chuckle rumbles in his throat. "Guess I'll just have to find it, yeh? . . ."

He resumes kissing her, his hand exploring the skin of her legs beneath her wedding gown. Quicker than he probably would have liked to, he finds the little lace-and-elastic band and starts pulling it down her thigh what seems like a millimeter at a time. As his hand reaches the back of her knees, he pauses to sweep a fingernail against the ticklish skin there, and Buffy gives a tiny, squeaky gasp, unable to help herself. Beaming devilishly, Spike shimmies the garter down to her ankle, stretches it around the short heel of her shoe, and then hooks it free.

"Something blue," he says slyly, holding the retrieved item between two fingers and appraising it appreciatively. "You wearing the matching set underneath, luv?"

"Spike!" she shushes. "Just throw the thing and we'll be that much closer to getting a room!"

He laughs and plants another sweet kiss against her lips. Then, keeping his back to the huddle of bachelors, he stands up, holds both arms above his head, and shoots the blue lace garter rubber-band style directly into Angel's nose. The brunette vampire doesn't have any time to react as the little loop of lingerie smacks him, rebounds off his astonished face, and falls right into his half open hand. Xander leads the other bachelors in raucous applause.

"And you accused _me_ of cheating?" whispers Buffy, using Spike's arm to pull herself up out of the chair.

"I didn't look, did I?" he replies cheekily, straightening his tuxedo. "Just fate, perhaps a dash of karma on the side."

"_Please_! No one has _that_ perfect aim."

"I thought about hitting Xander _and_ Giles too, like a pinball machine, but I figured that might have been showin' off a bit."

"Yeah, a _bit_," she snorts as they walk arm-in-arm back to their table.

"Dear me, we seem to be short on chairs, luv," he remarks, even though there is no one else currently sitting at the wedding party's table and plenty of seats are free.

"Tsk tsk," Buffy chides, playing along. "Silly chair shortage. What do you suggest we do?"

Without waiting for an invitation, Spike scoops her up in his arms, twirls her around once in a circle, and resumes his own seat, holding her astride his lap.

"This should do, eh? Keep us . . . warmed up . . ."

"Not too much," she insists, but neither Willow or Giles is anywhere to be seen, and Dawn is distracted dancing the YMCA with Clem. Spike growls playfully, kissing her and trapping her pouting lower lip between his teeth.

"Fret not, pet. In fact, I think I'll tease you a bit more, Mrs. Summers," he remarks, giving her lip a light tug.

"Eww. No 'Mrs. Summers'-ing me. That makes me sound so horribly _old_. I wish you'd let me take your name."

"No, luv, you really don't," he laughs. "Want to stroll about being called 'Mrs. Pratt' for the rest of your days? Besides, 'William Summers' has a nice ring to it. So quit distractin' me when I'm tryin' to distract you!"

He reaches forward to snatch a wrapped chocolate from the table centerpiece. Peeling off the foil, he holds the tiny square on his palm, offering it to Buffy.

"How is giving me chocolate teasing me?" she asks, but he pulls his hand away before she can take the candy. "Oh, come on, _William_, surely you can do better than that."

"Plannin' on it," he smirks, biting off half the chocolate square. He hums in appreciation, swirling the rich taste around his mouth. "Mmm. Want some, luv?"

"Uh-huh," she answers, a little confused.

"Come get it, then." With taunting eyebrows, Spike pops the other half of the chocolate between his lips. Buffy grins mischievously.

"Is this the part where I put my hands on your hot, tight little body and make you give it to me?"

She puts emphasis on her words by running the palms of her hands down his chest, smoothing the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. Spike snickers, licking the half-square of chocolate trapped between his teeth. And his face is so deliciously enticing that she suddenly doesn't give the slightest care who sees them.

Buffy twists on his lap, lifts one handful of her silky dress up to her mid-thigh, and hooks her bare leg around Spike's trouser-clad one, straddling him. Only his eyes react in time, widening and rolling upwards as she cups his face in her palms and leans over him. She plunges her tongue into his mouth, fishes out the warm, melting square of chocolate, and then sits up triumphantly, sinking her pelvis a little deeper against him.

"Oh . . . dear _God_ . . ." he moans in a voice that is so saturated with longing that it seems to be strangling him.

"Do I win, baby?" she grins, squirming just enough so that she can grind on Spike without making their movement visible to anyone on the other side of the wedding party's table. His body is stiffening and melting and shaking all at once, one hand clenching the tablecloth, the other frozen at her waist.

"_Ohh_ . . . oh, _yes_, Buffy . . . please, luv . . ."

"Buffy, may I ask what on earth you are doing?" says Giles's slightly disapproving voice from about six feet to Buffy's left. With a sarcastic glare at the ceiling, she swivels slightly on Spike's lap and looks over at Giles.

"My husband," she retorts nonchalantly, ignoring the near-silent, begging groans coming from Spike. "What're _you_ doing?"

Somewhat mortified, Giles keeps his eyes trained on a nearby decorated column as he answers, "Willow sent me to retrieve some blood for the poor chap, and now I have some idea as to why."

Giles hands over a heavy bottle made of dark glass, and Buffy grudgingly removes herself from Spike's lap to make sure the blood comes nowhere near her white gown.

"Thank God," Spike rasps. He immediately rips the cork out with his teeth and then tips the contents between his lips, his head lolling back.

"Gracious, perhaps I didn't bring enough," Giles comments as Willow and Kennedy return to the table.

"Oh, goody, you found the blood," says the redheaded witch appreciatively. "That hit the spot, Spike?"

He ignores them all, guzzling the blood with his eyes closed. A ripple runs over the bones in his forehead, but even with his intense thirst the internal bloodthirsty demon is not strong enough to overpower his newfound control.

"Stocking up for fun tonight," Kennedy smirks at Buffy, who turns to Willow with a plaintive smile.

"Oh, gracious and most powerful St Rosenberg, I have another humble bequest of thee."

"Name it, and it will be so," Willow replies, barely holding back her giggling.

"Um . . . can somebody get Spike an ice-pack?" says Buffy in full sincerity now. "I think I might have hurt him."

Kennedy lets out a snorting laugh, and both Willow and Giles instantly turn their heads toward Spike, who continues drinking his supply of blood, oblivious to the fact that he is under scrutiny. After two more thick swallows, he sighs appreciatively and sets the empty glass on the table.

"Ah. That's the real stuff, hospital grade B+. Spiced it up for me, didn't you, Watcher?" he calls Giles out, tasting the added burba weed.

"Eh, um, yes, I had a sprig in the remainder of my salvaged inventory from the Magic Box," Giles answers awkwardly. "I'll see about that ice-pack, Buffy."

"What?" asks Spike, realizing that both Willow and Kennedy are pink-faced from restraining their laughter as Giles walks away rapidly toward the church kitchen. They don't answer him until the Watcher returns with an instant gel-pack, the kind that would typically be used for a cold compress, and Spike finally interprets the giggles.

"Hey! I don't need a sodding ice-pack!"

"Spike, you can't stand up looking like that," Giles frowns, his gaze returning to the rose-embellished column as he holds out the compress.

"Why the bloody hell not? I'm a married man who just got half a lap dance from his bride!"

"Because you're supposed to go dance with Dawn in a minute," Willow informs him.

Spike's ears immediately turn red, and he rapidly accepts the ice-pack from Giles and holds it to his groin under the table, mumbling darkly.

"This is _your_ ruddy fault, Buffy Anne Summers."

"And it is _totally_ worth it," she snickers back at him, then turns to Willow and Giles. "Everything going smoothly? No uninvited guests? Hell-goddesses? Sword-toting knights? Uber-vamps?"

"None at all," Giles comments. "From what I heard, Angel's public relations' department made such outrageous threats to the supernatural community that no demon who wished to retain his or her reproductive organs would consider disrupting this occasion."

"Speaking of demons and reproductive organs . . ." says Spike casually, reaching out an arm and pulling Buffy back into his lap with a teasing growl. She yelps as her leg touches the ice-pack through the thin silk layers of her skirt.

"Perhaps this would be an excellent opportunity to cut the cake," Giles suggests loudly to Willow.

"Right you are, Giles," says the pleasanter chief member of the wedding planning committee. "I'll wheel it over here while you announce it to everyone."

She scampers toward the frosted mountain in the corner and, with Xander's help, rolls the cake-bearing cart toward the head table. Faith-zilla, having divested herself of the unwanted bouquet, charges towards them to oversee the movement of the massive pastry, and between the three of them they manage to transport the cake to the wedding party's table unscathed. Dawn squirms to the front of the group and raises her faithful camera.

"Now make it _really_ messy, you too!" she demands of Spike and Buffy as the two of them reluctantly detangle their limbs, stand up, and prepare to slice into the top layer of white-frosted, chocolaty goodness. "Whole globs of it all over your faces!"

"But not a crumb on her dress," Willow adds, nearly begging.

Rolling her eyes, Buffy lays her hand over Spike's cool one, and together they make two clean cuts into the uppermost cake layer. Willow supplies a plate for their slice, and Spike picks up the fork first.

"Want me to play it dirty, luv?" he whispers, so soft that only Buffy can hear him.

"Only once we're in bed," she answers cheekily in an equally quiet voice, hoping Dawn can't read her lips behind the camera lens.

Spike grins, hooks a tiny sliver of the cake slice onto the fork, and – with the same perfect precision that sent the garter into Angel's face – carefully ladles the bite of cake into Buffy's open mouth. She sighs in appreciation, enjoying the vividly sweet taste, and accepts the fork from Spike to return the favor. Though her aim is not as perfect as his, she still manages to fork-feed him a nibble without dropping desert on either of their clothes. He licks stray icing off his lips and then leans forward to kiss her, melding the warmth of the chocolate with the even richer, slightly metallic flavor of blood that lingers in his mouth.

* * *

**A/N: **Please let me know what you think! Spike knows what happens to writers who don't get reviews: "_Living skeletons, mate. Like famine victims from those dusty countries, only not half as funny_." (Episode 4.6, "Pangs") Heehee! ;) The last part – including the start of the honeymoon night, will be written and posted as soon as I get all my nasty homework done!


	10. Chapter 10: Worship, part 3

**A/N: **Sorry for the long update wait. Good news is . . . this _still_ isn't the last chapter! More scenes keep multiplying like bunnies (RIP Anya).

But for real, you guys, the next chapter will _really_ be the last chapter: just the honeymoon night, lots of Spuffy lovin'. =) Thanks for sticking with me patiently and for all of your kind reviews! Special kudos to _Rabbit-moon_ (were you also watching the GOTR Stageit concert?! Wasn't it awesome?!) and to the anonymous reviewer who said this fic is "bloody brilliant"! Thanks so much!

**As always, all rights to these beloved characters belong to Joss Whedon.**

**Previously, on Buffy the Vampire Slayer:** Instead of fleeing the collapsing Hellmouth after confessing her love for Spike, Buffy stays with him as the cavern crumbled, and they survive, buried in the debris while Willow and Giles take the remaining survivors to Los Angeles to consult with Angel. Believing Buffy to be killed by the magic of the amulet and the Hellmouth, they decide to attempt to resurrect her, unaware that she and Spike are digging their way up through the caved-in remains of Sunnydale. Spike discovers that the amulet has suppressed his vampirism enough to allow him to survive in sunlight without burning, and he secretly wonders if he now can give Buffy a truly complete life. The Scoobies return to Sunnydale to carry out their plan, but are instead reunited with a very much alive Buffy and Spike, the later of whom proposes to her on the spot. Their wedding is going perfectly, aside from some delayed gratification . . .

* * *

**Chapter 10: "Worship, part 3" (Season 8, Episode 4, Act IV)**

"No, I will not dance the bloody conga, Niblet," Spike insists, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. Since stuffing themselves full of chocolate cake, he and Buffy have sat obediently through another hour of their reception, and aside from a slight dwindling of the attendees and an increase in the pile of presents stashed to the side of the dance floor, there seems to be no progress towards their romantic happily ever after.

"C'mon, Spi-i-ike," Dawn whines plaintively. "Ple-e-e-ease?"

"Look, I promised you the father-daughter dance, a'right? Let a bloke pick his battles at his own wedding."

"Angel will dance it with me," she counters as the Cuban dance music picks up.

Spike throws his hands above his shoulders and rolls his eyes.

"Shudder, gasp, mustn't let my lil' sis dance with that poncy bugger!" he exclaims in mock alarm.

"So you'll do it?!"

"No, I certainly will _not_. Toddle off. Dance with my Grandsire all you like."

"I bet Riley would have danced it with me."

Spike looks quickly over at Buffy – who stands a few yards away admiring the wedding presents from Clem, Vi, and Rona – and thankfully she is too distracted to have heard her sister mention Riley's name.

"I couldn't sodding care less 'bout what Soldier Boy might've done!" Spike retorts, his voice slightly harsher, angered that Dawn would so insensitively bring up Buffy's ex on their wedding day. It was as if Hank Summers had just barged his way back in and demanded a few slices of cake. "Literally. There is no possible way I could care any less than I do. This is me _not_ caring. See Spike. See Spike sit. See Spike not care . . . oh, dash it all, I'll do it."

Dawn squeals with delight and hauls Spike out of his chair to the middle of the dance floor where a single-file line of tipsy party-goers is already forming.

"But only because you're a cruel and heartless girl who ought'a have more homework fillin' up her time 'stead'a scheming 'bout how to unman your new brother-in-law," he points disapprovingly into her grinning face.

"Yep. I'm bad to the bone. Put your hands on my waist!"

"Oh, now you've done it. I'll go tell Buffy you talked dirty to me, and then you'll be sorry."

"Killjoy."

"Mini minx."

Very reluctantly, Spike sets his cold hands on Dawn's skinny waist, making the absolute minimum amount of contact.

"You've got to hold on or I'll dance right out of your hands and you'll leave the line stranded," she insists.

"Be on your merry way, then," he retorts under his breath, but nevertheless holds her a little tighter, palms flat to the sides of her scarlet, knee-length bridesmaid's dress.

"Okay, now you take three steps along with the beat and then kick your free foot. See?"

Dragged along, Spike watches Dawn's feet and – feeling his pride leaking out like pus through an infected wound – mimics her footwork.

"Good! Now every time you kick, you've got to say 'Hey!'"

"Wild horses couldn't drag it from me!" he grumbles.

"Hey!" Dawn choruses with the other conga shufflers, and when she doesn't hear Spike join in, she shoots her elbow back, catching him in the ribs.

"Eh!" he protests irritated. "That hurt. Why don't you go on and castrate me while you're at it?"

"Say 'Hey!'" she orders.

"Hey," he drawls, intentionally off the music's timing, and receives another dose of elbow. "Eh! Quit that!"

"Then do it right! Hey!" she chants cheerily.

"Hey," he concedes, eyeing the ceiling as though begging for a sunbeam to dust him, before remembering that he's no longer affected by sunlight.

Two minutes of torture later, the conga song ends with a shrill trumpet blast, and Dawn whirls around and hugs Spike around the chest.

"Thanks, Spike!" she giggles. "That was so fun! And you did okay near the end, once you stopped being a whiny, stuck-up Englishman."

"You owe me in spades, kiddo," Spike says wearily, patting Dawn's shoulder. "I'm thinkin' . . . no complaints about dinner for a whole month, no matter what Buffy and I cook you. And maybe I'll take all your horrid girly films and bury them somewhere in the yard."

"The ones that are _already_ buried somewhere in the ruins of Sunnydale?" she asks saucily, reminding him of the dire fate of most of the Scoobies' meager possessions.

"Er . . . right. Well, the dinner one, then. Even if I coat every bite in garlic!"

"Yeah, yeah. Wanna dance another?"

"Dawnie!" he protests, deflated. "I'm parched, my feet hurt to high Heaven, and my self-respect feels like it just got beat upside the head with a poker! Let me rest another bit and then when Giles stands up with Buffy, I'll ask you, a'right?"

"Okay! I'll go make Faith and Robin dance! Angel will have a coronary!"

Breaking away from him, Dawn rushes off towards her next victims before Spike can either _tell_ her that vampires with unbeating hearts can't have heart attacks . . . or more importantly _ask_ her why Angelus would give a single blink of his brooding eyes if Faith dances with Ex-Principal Wood. Slightly confused, Spike wanders back to the wedding party's table, collapses into his chair, and sags forward, dropping his arms and then his head onto the tablecloth.

"So, how was the dance, sweetie?" Buffy asks innocently, fighting to keep down the giggles that had been bubbling out of her almost the entire time she had been watching the conga spectacle.

"How was being manhandled around in a dance line by a seventeen-year-old girl? Just dandy. Need a sodding vacuum cleaner to scrounge up all the shreds of my dignity."

"Aww, my poor darling," smiles Buffy, stroking her fingers through the wild, bleach-blond curls at the back of Spike's neck. "Would kisses help?"

"Mmhmm."

Leaning over, she presses his lips to his cool neck and feels his throat rumble with a purr-like sound of gratitude.

"I love you, Spike," she whispers, bestowing little kisses along his sharp cheekbone.

"Love you more, Buffy," he answers, mouth barely moving.

"Spike, are you falling asleep?"

"Mmhmm. Niblet whipped me good an' proper."

"Do you want more blood? If you're too . . . tired."

Still slumped over with his forearm on the table, he turns his face to look at her.

"Why? You worried 'bout my performance tonight, pet?" he asks suggestively, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Matching his teasing smile, she swoops in for a kiss, tickling his upper lip with a brush of her warm tongue. He chuckles, smiling so widely that she's left kissing his teeth. But the moment she starts to lean away, his right hand slides up to keep her face close, and his cool mouth melts against hers.

"Have I ever told you . . ." he murmurs tenderly, his thumb caressing her chin, "that you taste of glorious wine, my love? You make my veins burn with the sweetest fire."

"There's my William, poetry and all," Buffy says breathlessly, enraptured.

"A poet's no good without a proper muse, luv." His index finger runs down one side of her cheek and then the other, alternating as he kisses her between each whispered phrase. "And you, Buffy Summers – are ravishingly beautiful – and I want you – in my arms . . . and, frankly," he sits back and shrugs his shoulders in frustration, "I don't know a single one of these blighters."

The magic is hilariously shattered, and Buffy fixes her smudged lip-gloss with a napkin, smirking at her husband.

"That's a fib. You know . . . er . . . well, let's see . . . Clem was here! He left after cake."

"Uh-huh. Seriously, luv, who invited this lot? We barely know a soul outside the wedding party and the Slayerettes. Well, the Poofter and his mates notwithstanding."

"Somehow the big pile of presents makes me feel a little less sensitively about who in Los Angeles actually knows us," she points out. Spike sighs.

"But do we _really_ have to keep talkin' to all these people, Buffy?" he asks, the teeniest pout on his perfect lips. "My throat's like sandpaper."

She rubs a gentle hand on his arm. "I think Giles went on another blood-run. And I swear we're almost through the schedule."

"Yeah, thought Red said some'it like that over half an hour ago. If she doesn't give us the go-ahead soon, I might start pickin' off the remaining guests."

"Oh, honestly!" she laughs. "If I hear one more joke about eating people . . ."

"Yeah, this just seems to be the day of life-imperiling threats," agrees Xander, approaching them with a slight look of apprehension. "Er, Buff, I'm not tryin' to butt in or anything, but, have you got a dance for your favorite pirate?"

"I might. You've got to ask my hubby, Xander," Buffy grins at Spike, who eyes his empty flask of blood before looking up at Xander with a weary sigh.

"Only for you, mate, and Rupes if I can find him and top off my glass. Then I get my bride all to myself."

Standing, Spike kisses Buffy's forehead, grabs another chocolate from the center of the table and looks around for the kitchen door. Buffy turns to follow Xander out onto the dance floor. The chosen background music is a lively swing-dance rhythm, but they dance at a slower pace, more interested in talking than in East Coast Swing.

"Your best-man speech was wonderful," says Buffy, looking up into her best friend's eye. "You managed _not_ to insult Spike as much as I'm sure you wanted to, and you avoided saying that _you_ had a crush on me for the longest time."

"Yeah, I'm trying this new maturity thing, not sure how it's gonna work out. So, you and Spike got your whole lives planned yet? Names of pets? Vacation hotspots?"

"We haven't really had time," Buffy shrugs. "I don't even know where we're going to live once Angel gets tired of us taking up the penthouse suite of the hotel."

"Yeah, and now that you're not the only Slayer and all, you can . . . I dunno, have a John-and-Jane-Doe kind of life."

Buffy thinks on that, catching a glimpse of Spike in the corner of her eyes. He is back at the head table, a fresh serving of blood in the dark bottle, unwrapping yet another chocolate and smiling at her.

"I hope we can be normal," she says quietly. "In everything."

Xander takes a deep breath, recalling what Spike had admitted to him, the hope that he and Buffy could somehow have children. "I catch what you're getting at. Spike wants that too, Buff."

"Even if he does . . . he's a vampire, Xander. I know he . . . he can't . . ."

"Survive in sunlight? Eat garlic? Face it, Buff. Spike's not your run-of-the-mill vamp anymore. Whatever that Amulet did to him, it seems permanent. There's a serious chance here that you can have it both ways: super-powered and semi-normal."

"That's nice to imagine, but it's nothing I'm banking on," Buffy replies, her gaze flickering over Xander's shoulder to look longingly at Spike. "The fact that the Amulet could have changed him in that particular way hadn't occurred to me at all. If it did, and we can settle down and raise a family, that's great. If it didn't, I won't ever think any less of him. He's perfect for me, Xander."

"He really is. And unfortunately I think he's about to be perfectly mad."

Before Buffy can say "Huh?", Xander is halted by a tap on the shoulder, and they both turn to face Angel.

"Can I cut in?" he asks, eyes twinkling at the wary look in both their faces.

"You didn't go all evil again, right?" Xander verifies, scrutinizing Angel with one skeptical eye.

"Course not. Why does everyone always assume . . . nevermind. I just want a little dance, for old times sake."

"Did you ask Spike if –?"

"Xander, Buffy's a grown woman and can make up her own mind about whether or not she wants to dance with an old friend."

"_Old_ being the operative word."

"Boys," Buffy cuts them both off. "I'm right here, ya know. I have two ears that work most of the time. And I say yes, _one_ dance. A short one."

"You sure, Buff?" Xander asks, glancing at Spike, who has risen from the table, eyes blazing at them from across the room.

"Just cool Spike down. This'll be brief, I promise."

Reluctantly, Xander relinquishes Buffy's right hand into Angel's, says "Your funeral, buddy," and immediately heads for the wedding party's table. Spike wolfs down another mouthful of blood as he approaches.

"So Angelus thinks I won't stake him just because all his mates are here guarding his soddin' back, does he?" he growls darkly.

"Spike –"

"Thinks I've gone all soft and harmless –"

"Spike, you're getting all worked up over nothing. Buffy loves _you_. You, yourself, and . . . you. Even if no little Spikes ever show up."

Spike's azure eyes flash to Xander, staring him down with a blend of shock and skepticism.

"She didn't outright tell you that?" he demands of his best man, his voice lower, less assured of himself. "Somehow I can't figure you and Buffy chattin' about my impotence."

"Not in so many words," Xander admits, "but she's not banking on how much the Amulet fudged up your vampire nature, Spike. She didn't pick you over Angel now because you've got more reproductive potential than that sourpuss. She picked you because she loves you."

Spike's anger seems to be deflating with each strained swallow he takes, watching the love of his unlife dance with the vampire who made him a monster. Meanwhile, on the dance floor, Angel turns Buffy in slow circles, their eyes seemingly locked in battle, wondering who will break the silence first.

"Not done baking, eh?" Angel finally asks.

"That was a stupid analogy."

"You're the one who came up with it."

"Well, I have a record of poor logic when it comes to cookies, so forget it."

"Fine."

Another couple eight-counts of the song passes, Angel's frowning face hovering above Buffy's, and she's reminded of how uncomfortably tall he is compared to her. She never feels so miniscule with Spike; his stature complements hers, like the matching piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

"You're angry with me, aren't you?" asks Buffy eventually, smiling because Angel's brooding face is so comical and out of place in the brightly-decorated wedding reception hall.

"No, I'm angry with Spike for not dying," he grumbles.

"Well, get over it. Find a nice girl and calmly knit sweaters with her. I volunteer Faith."

"Not you too! I only just escaped Dawn and her 'Five Reasons Why Angel and Faith Are Horribly Perfect for Each Other' speech!"

Buffy snorts with laughter. "I would have _paid_ to hear that."

"I could probably recite it back to you. I'm sure it'll haunt me until my dying d– . . . er . . . for a very long time."

"Anything to make you quit moping like a big baby."

Angel sighs. "I didn't come dance with you because I wanted to argue, Buffy. I may be . . . more than a little resentful that you chose Spike over me, but –"

"Again, I direct your attention to the 'Get Over It' clause," Buffy interrupts, eyebrows rising skeptically. "Angel, Spike is my husband. He is mine, I'm his, you're not in the equation. You haven't been more than a dark smudge in my life for the past four years. Yeah, I fell in love with you when I was a kid. But there's a big difference between falling in love with someone and actually _loving_ them. I didn't know that when I was with you, but I know that now. Being 'in love' is a fantasy. It's all feelings and urges and looks and pretend. But love . . . it's when you can dump the best and worst of yourself into a person, and they take every inch and still vow to stand at your side through the end of the world. That's love."

"You seem awful quick to forget the time Spike almost . . ." Angel can't even finish his accusation, the word catching in his throat. "He tried to hurt you, Buffy."

"I haven't forgotten at all. I remember it perfectly. He tried, and I fought back, and he stopped. He didn't have a soul, but he stopped, Angel. I'd been abusing him for _months_, abandoned my friends and my sister and spent every night taking advantage of the only person who really wanted to understand how to help me."

"_Help_ you? You sure you weren't just telling yourself that? You were sleeping with him. What else did he really want?"

"He loved me, Angel, even without his soul, before it. When he went too far that night in the bathroom, he realized what he'd done, how much we'd both been hurting each other. He knew he had to change the part of him that I couldn't love. So he _earned_ his soul for me."

Angel bites his lip in aggravation and notices Spike begin walking around the edge of the table, moving toward them as the song ends.

"And you're sure his shiny new soul won't run for the hills as soon as he gets you back in bed tonight?" accuses Angel, knowing Spike can hear him as he approaches.

Thunderstruck, Buffy immediately releases Angel's hand and steps away, fighting the urge to slap him in the face.

"That's enough of that," Spike says in a soft but authoritative voice, gently slipping his arm around Buffy's waist. Angel eyes them both coldly.

"Angel, please just go," asks Buffy, curling a little tighter into Spike's comforting embrace. Angel's face turns – if possible – even more livid as he watches her involuntary movement.

"I swear to God, Spike," he glares, vampiric amber flecks appearing in his dark eyes, his demon aching to be released, "if you hurt her –"

"Liam." Spike's eyes are like blazing blue daggers, pinning Angel in place, matching him in power without the need to call on demonic emphasis. "Just walk away."

Angel takes a few unnecessary breaths, clenches his teeth, and then turns around, stomping off the dance floor. They watch him retrieve his black overcoat from the head table, motion to his associates, and leave through the back door of the reception area. Spike feels Buffy shaking and realizes she has succumbed to silent tears.

"Buffy . . . shh, shh . . . it's alright, luv. Can't let old Peaches spoil our special day."

"I'm so sorry, Spike," Buffy whispers, laying her head against his collarbone and sniffling softly. "I thought he could handle it, could be happy for us."

"Thought so too. He seemed alright for a while. I s'pose when you're doomed to an eternity of repentance it just bites to watch anyone else be so happy for too long. Cracked from the strain."

She gives a blubbery giggle and scrunches up her face to fight her tears. "Willow will want to come fix my ma–"

"You are beautiful," Spike cuts her off, smoothing away the tiny line of mascara smudge with a gentle thumb. "And there's no luckier fellow in all the universe than me."

He moves his thumb and plants a kiss on her cheek instead, feeling her eyelashes tremble against his upper lip.

"Spike?"

"Yes, luv?"

She voices the question slowly, genuinely afraid of the truth. "You . . . you don't think there's a way . . . are you even the teensiest bit worried that you might . . . lose your soul?"

Tears hover on the brink of her eyelids again. Spike swallows before responding, inwardly cursing Angel's jealousy and spiteful words.

"I'm not worried one smidge, Buffy. Way I see it, my soul's always belonged to you. I fought for it, bled for it, all for you. I know it won't mind if my body comes along for the ride. 'Sides, I've been in perfect bliss ever since I saw you coming down that aisle. If my soul was of the lose-able variety, I'd have lost it a million times over by now."

Confidence restored, Buffy leans in for a kiss. "Well, in that case, I'm almost ready for some not-soul-losing activities."

"Just say the word, luv," Spike grins, tongue playing sexily between his teeth.

"There's just one more thing I've got to do first."

She flags Giles with a wave of her hand, and he sets a fresh glass of spiced blood for Spike on the table before walking over to join them.

"Got a dance for your favorite little Slayer?" she asks, smiling sweetly at her Watcher.

Naturally, the first thing he does is pull out a handkerchief for his glasses, though both Buffy and Spike can see the real cause of his momentarily smudged vision: glistening pools of happiness filling up his eyes.

"Of course, dear Buffy," he answers, stuffing the useless handkerchief back into his pocket. He nods to the DJ, who sets the mood with a soft, bluesy tune, probably pre-selected by Willow.

"Take good care of my lady, Rupert," grins Spike, bestowing a quick kiss on Buffy's forehead. He then hurries back over to the table, gulps down the third serving of blood, pops another chocolate into his mouth, gestures to Dawn with a flourishing bow, and escorts her out onto the dance floor.

Giles begin a semblance of a slow waltz, and they dance in silence for a few minutes, caught up in memories. Their bond is so far beyond teacher and student, so close to father and daughter, that neither of them know quite what to say.

"Giles," Buffy notices after a bit, "you're still crying."

"Am I? Oh, yes, yes, I suppose I am."

"You're gonna make me cry all over again, and then Willow will spank you."

"She most certainly will do no such thing," he says in alarm, looking momentarily worried by the possibility.

"I'm sure you're safe from witchy wrath," Buffy reassures him. "So . . . did I do okay, Giles?"

"What do you mean? Are you asking me to give sanction to your marriage to Spike? I should think that was obvious, Buffy. I gave you away."

"That you did," she smiles, her question fully answered.

"We all had our doubts about Spike, but he proved himself by saving all our lives. Preventing another apocalypse tends to give a fresh perspective to matters such as these."

"Does it count as 'prevented' even though the whole town caved in?" Buffy giggles.

"Most certainly. If unchecked at Sunnydale, the forces of the First Evil would have ravaged all of Southern California by now, perhaps the entire continent."

His tone has turned businesslike again, all Watcherly, but Buffy keeps smiling all the same, overjoyed that she and her husband have the approval of her trusted mentor.

Cool fingers suddenly entwine with hers. Clearly more adept at dancing than he had previously admitted, Spike switches the partners, substituting Dawn into Giles' hand and artfully spinning Buffy away.

"I'll have my bride back now, thanks, mate," he says cheekily to the Watcher, then whispers sweetly into Buffy's ear. "Almost time for our getaway."

He kisses her temple as the blues music crescendos and concludes, and the few lingering wedding attendees applaud them graciously. Willow and Faith have already distributed tiny baskets of rose petals among the guests, and at their cue, everyone heads for the hallway doors, forming a human tunnel for the bride and groom to pass through.

"Ah, yes," Spike grimaces, "the dastardly party favors."

"Just be glad they settled on flower petals and not rice or birdseed, " says Dawn, standing at the front of the line, waiting for her hug good-bye. "I kept insisting on bubbles, but nobody listens to me."

"Bye, Dawnie," Buffy says quickly, squeezing first her sister, then Willow, and then Xander around the shoulders. "Be really good, and do your homework, and be nice to the junior Slayers."

"And don't take candy from strange men," Spike adds, laughing.

"You sillies!" giggles Dawn, poking her brother-in-law in the ribs. "It's not like you're going halfway around the world. I'll probably see you tomorrow!"

"Not bloody likely," Spike retorts with a grin, one arm tight around Buffy's waist. "We'll be dreadfully busy for days! Ready to go, pet?"

"Ready!"

Arm-in-arm, they streak down the hallway and are showered with sweet-smelling petals, a few well thrown handfuls catching them in their faces.

"Have a fun time, you two!" cheers Willow, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet as she tosses her petals. "Don't smash anything too valuable!"

"Are you kidding?" Faith counters, aiming her last clump of petals at the back of Spike's head. "They're staying in Angel's hotel! I say milk Rich Boy for all he's worth. An heirloom lamp, an antique urn or two . . ."

At last Spike and Buffy reach the door, held open by Andrew and Robin. The sun has nearly set, casting stunning autumn-leaf-colored rays over the church and the street outside. Buffy smiles at Spike as they step fearlessly into the sunlight. Willow follows them to facilitate bundling the long train of Buffy's dress into the awaiting Wolfram & Hart limousine, and Spike clambers in beside her, immediately wrapping his arm around Buffy's shoulders. With a final wave, the married couple close the limo door, and the black car chases the retreating sun through the Los Angeles streets.

* * *

**A/N: **The _very last_ chapter will be the honeymoon night. Short, sweet and sexy Spuffy. =)

I know I kind-of made Angel out to be the bad guy in this chapter. I just think he would be very resentful if Buffy chose Spike, and he even if he tried, he couldn't let her go without a bit of a fight. Plus, Angel was a drunken git before he became a vampire – it's just the hundred years of soul-induced guilt before he met Buffy that turned him into a softie, until his soul went poof again. Spike, on the other hand, was a sensitive gentleman, albeit a lousy poet, prior to being sired by Drusilla and turned into the hunky bad boy we're all so familiar with. Plus, I think there's a _huge_ difference between Angel's _cursed_ soul and Spike's _earned_ one. I just thought I'd offer this explanation in the hopes that I didn't alienate any of you dear readers by demonizing Angel (no pun intended). =)


	11. Chapter 11: United

**A/N: **Obligatory on-the-edge-of-the-T-rating warning. ;) Non-graphic discussion of the bathroom scene from _Seeing Red_, and a long tender night for the newlyweds. I'm not explicit about any private anatomy in the love scene (because I want to keep the T rating, and I don't think my writing could do justice to Spike anyway), but it gets pretty steamy, definitely 13 and up. ;)

**As always, all rights to these beloved characters belong to Joss Whedon.**

**Previously, on Buffy the Vampire Slayer:** Instead of fleeing the collapsing Hellmouth, Buffy stays with Spike as the cavern crumbled, and they survive, buried in the debris. The Scoobies consult with Angel in LA and decide to attempt to resurrect Buffy _again_, unaware that she and Spike are digging their way up through the caved-in remains of Sunnydale. The amulet has suppressed Spike's vampirism enough to allow him to survive in sunlight without burning, and he secretly wonders if he now can give Buffy a truly complete life. When the Scoobies return to Sunnydale and are reunited with a very much alive Buffy and Spike, he proposes to her on the spot. Their wedding day draws to a close, and they are finally alone together . . .

* * *

**Chapter 11: "United" (Season 8, Episode 4, Act V)**

In the back seat of the Wolfram & Hart limousine, the newlyweds rest comfortably, barely registering the many winding turns of the narrow LA streets as the car weaves toward its destination. Buffy yawns, exhausted from standing and smiling for so many hours.

"First I was noddin' off and now you, pet?" Spike notes with a smile. "You sure no nasty witch types put us under some kind of sleepin' sickness?"

"I'm still awake," Buffy whispers, nestling closer into his side. "I just thought we'd be at the hotel by now. We're keeping our plans, right? The Hyperion?"

She doesn't say Angel's name, but Spike knows she's tempted to reconsider anything associated with their angry groomsman, even his reluctant, but nevertheless extravagant, wedding present – an extended stay in the largest honeymoon suite of the Hyperion Hotel.

"Seems a shame to let such a fine gift go to waste, luv. I promise we won't have to see him. We'll go straight up to the penthouse floor and . . . forget the world."

She leans against his shoulder and sighs, and he kisses the top of her head, eyes closing contentedly.

"I keep thinking, 'Shouldn't I be going back to my old house on Revello Drive?' and then I remember that it isn't there anymore," muses Buffy, tracing a pattern on Spike's tuxedo sleeve with her fingertip. "The whole _street_ isn't there, nothing left. It's surreal, not having a home to go back to."

"Maybe now that I'm un-dust-able I should join Xander's construction crew, learn how to build you a proper house, not to mention work on my tan, eh?" Spike suggests merrily. He reaches down for Buffy's doodling hand and tenderly lifts it to his lips. Buffy gives another relaxed sigh, adjusting her forehead so that it rests against Spike's wonderfully cool neck.

They feel the limo come to a gentle halt outside the imposing headquarters of Angel Investigations, and Spike wraps his arm more securely underneath Buffy's right shoulder.

"Hold your train up, luv."

"Why?"

"Got to carry you over the threshold, haven't I?" he grins, kissing her left eyebrow. He helps her gather up the excess skirt material in her hands, and when the limo driver opens the door, Spike stands and swings Buffy up into his arms. He carries her across the moonlit courtyard and enters the lavish hotel foyer, the ceiling shrouded in romantic shades of orange, then continues across the marble floor to the staircase winding around the edge of the room.

"You could have just taken the elevator," Buffy teases, noticing Spike's breathing grow more and more labored as they near the fifth floor. Spike scowls playfully and buries his nose into the soft flesh of her neck, sending her into a hysterical fit of giggles.

"Spike! We'll wake up everyone in the hotel," she protests when she regains control of her voice.

"Weren't we plannin' on doin' that a little later anyway?" he chuckles, hoisting her a little higher in his grasp as they reach the fifth floor landing.

"Why Mr. Summers!" Buffy cries in mock astonishment. "How very naughty you are!"

"Only if you want me to be, my love," he whispers back, adjusting her in his arms so that one hand is free to grasp the doorknob of the honeymoon suite. He pushes it open, steps inside, and taps it closed again with a nudge of his foot. Spike carefully sets Buffy on her feet as they look around the extravagant set of rooms.

Immediately in front of them is a carpeted common area and attached kitchenette, a half-wall separating the first room from the large bedroom. White and crimson rose petals and tendrils of black ribbon are strewn everywhere, sprinkling the ruby-colored sheets of the king-size four-poster bed and marking a trail into the adjoining bathroom, like drops of blood upon the creamy tile. Strategically placed candles emit soft light over the room's surfaces, and classical music plays quietly through a hidden speaker system.

It's sensual and Gothic . . . and distinctly prepared for them by _Angel_.

Neither one of them wants to speak, and the first sound to break the stillness is the click of the door handle as Spike locks it behind them. He swallows uncomfortably.

"Think we should check for cameras, luv?" he asks, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the room's uneasy near-silence.

"And if we find any, who do we blame? Andrew or Angel?"

Her voice catches, and – almost afraid to touch her – Spike reaches over and tenderly rubs one of her shoulders.

"Buffy . . . darling . . ."

"I . . ." she murmurs quickly, unable to stop the tiny shaking in her voice, "I need . . . to w-wash my face, s-so I don't wake up l-l-looking like a raccoon. Take my v-v-veil off, please, Spike?"

Exhaling slowly, he reaches up to the mound of gauzy white fabric and eases the headpiece out of Buffy's silky blonde curls.

"Thanks," she whispers, turning around to look at him. "Spike, are you . . . paler than usual?"

"Must be the light," he smiles, fingering the gossamer veil. "S'pose I might be a bit nervous. Never been married before, luv."

"Do you . . . want to come in with me?"

He looks past her, eyes following the path of rose petals into the bathroom, and a rush of sick, guilty memories seems to plow deeply into his gut. _Buffy swathed in a thin grayish-blue robe, his hands snatching roughly at her, shoving her to the floor_ . . .

"No, I . . . I'll let you have your privacy, sweetheart." All the air has gone out of his voice, and Buffy realizes what he must be thinking, remembering that horrible night.

"Spike, don't . . ."

"Oh, Buffy, I'm so sorry! I'm so very sorry, love."

He sinks to his knees, his cold fingers slipping down her arm and drawing her fingers against his lips, bowing his head so she can't see the tears filling his cobalt eyes. But she can feel them, frigid drops like shards of ice against her skin.

"Spike, no, don't do this to yourself."

"I'll never hurt you again," he gasps against her fingers, his tears falling freely now. "So long as I live, I swear I'll never lay a finger on you 'cept when and where and how you tell me. Oh, dear God, Buffy, how can you forgive me?"

She drops to the carpet beside him and gently pulls his face into her shoulder, cradling his head in her arms as he shakes and weeps with repentance. Though she's sure she subconsciously knew this already, she realizes that, if all goes as she had hoped, tonight will be the first time they will consummate their love since the unspeakable happened. But . . . in a way, this night will be a different kind of first. No agendas, no furtive hasty coupling, no terror of their twisted relationship being discovered by their friends. Tonight they are going to make love, and they're going to do it fearlessly.

Buffy runs her fingers soothingly through Spike's hair, further mussing up his jumble of white-blond curls.

"Look at me, baby," she whispers, gently tugging until he leans back enough to gaze into her eyes. "William, I love you. I forgave you the moment I realized you'd gotten your soul for me. You never claimed to be perfect, and anyone who knows me could tell you I'm not. We're two very screwed up people, and we're bound to make a lot of mistakes over our married life. But if I know anything, it's that I love you, and nothing could ever change that."

She draws him back towards her and kisses him, tasting the cool salt of his tears on his lips. He momentarily hesitates, then gives in to her kiss, his mouth kneading a familiar rhythm against hers until she pulls away to draw breath. He fixes his eyes on hers, caressing her cheek with two feather-light fingers.

"My beautiful, darling Buffy. How lost I'd be without you."

Her hands slip down from his hair to wrap around his neck, but then her fingertips make contact with what feels like little scraps of paper-thin velvet.

"Spike, you . . . you have rose petals down the back of your shirt," she giggles, pulling out the one that had caught her attention.

"Faith's work, I imagine. Thought I felt somethin' hit me right as we got out the church door." He smirks, picking another few petals out from between his tuxedo jacket and shirt collar, then nods toward the bathroom. "Go on and freshen up, luv. I'll be waiting."

He helps her to her feet, smoothing out the silky layers of her dress so she doesn't trip on her train. Smiling, she kisses his cheek tenderly.

"Okay. I'll be out in a minute. And I won't take anything off. That's your job."

With a wink, she gathers her gown to ankle height and swishes into the suite bathroom, kicking aside the rose petals so she can close the door. Spike swallows roughly, flicks open the top-most of his shirt buttons, and loosens his bowtie slightly, his sapphire eyes assessing the room once again. His hands trembling, he wanders farther from the door and notices an expansive closet on the opposite wall from the bathroom. All of his and Buffy's possessions – any items of hers that the Scoobies scavenged in the getaway bus as well as new purchases made during their current stint in LA – are stocked within, and Spike proudly notes his duster on a reinforced hanger near the back of the walk-in closet.

His restlessness mounting, Spike paces past the over-the-top scarlet bed to the matching window curtains, shrouding them from the city outside, then back to the couches close to the door. With a sudden flood of retaliatory inspiration, he begins rapidly scooping up the pieces of black ribbon from the floor and furniture, gathering them all up and hurling them into a rubbish bin by the closet. As his self-confidence gains strides, he glances at the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and runs both hands through his hair multiple times, giving up when the stubborn curls absolutely refuse any attempt to smooth them out.

"Spike."

He turns at the sound of his beloved's voice, and her face captures his eyes instantly. With her makeup scrubbed away, she looks so natural and innocent, like years of pain, loss, and hardship have been stripped away along with her rouge and eye-shadow.

"Buffy . . ." He takes a cautious step towards her, one hand resting on the waist-high partial wall between the living area and the bed. "You're . . . stunning."

Buffy blushes, the natural rising color in her cheeks more visible now that her makeup is gone. Spike is acutely aware that his own blood is not rushing in the direction of his brain, but he knows what he has yet to say before he dares to touch his bride.

"Please, Buffy, I want . . . I want this to be perfect for you. If I do _anything_ you don't like, anything at all, one word from you and I'll stop the second you . . ."

"Spike," she interrupts, closing the small distance between them and threading her fingers into his, her other hand resting on the center of his chest. "Just kiss me."

Smiling gratefully, Spike barely has to incline his head for her lips to be within perfect reach. He starts with gentle, chaste kisses, his free hand softly cupping her cheek, relishing the softness of her lips. His kisses are tender, but Buffy wants fire, impatience mastering her after only a few seconds. Without giving him any warning, she probes her tongue between Spike's lips. He groans involuntarily, chuckles, and then returns in kind, plundering her warm mouth with his tongue.

"That what you were after, sweetheart?" he inquires when she has to gasp for breath.

"Mmhmm . . . I want you, Spike. All of you."

"All in due time, luv. The whole night is ours."

"The whole _forever_ is ours," she corrects him.

"No hurry then," he grins, kissing up the side of her nose and between her eyebrows.

Their hands begin an exploratory dance, Spike's cautious, Buffy's deliberate, both of them chuckling occasionally when they unearth more rose petals in between the shifting folds of each others' clothing. Buffy pulls lose the knot of his tie and uses it to draw his face even closer, dragging his mouth back to her lips.

"Oh my," he whispers, raising one eyebrow seductively. "Whatever is my wife doin' with my clothes?"

"Taking them off," replies Buffy boldly, her fingers eager at the collar of his shirt. She pushes his hands off of her momentarily so that she can slide his black tux jacket off his leonine shoulders.

"Hey, I've never seen you in white before," she realizes, holding him at arms length so she can admire him. "Very sexy. Might have to make it a habit."

"Didn't think white matched well with the duster," he shrugs, "but if you say so, pet."

"Spike, if you don't stop talking, we're going to miss the bed, and it's a very nice bed, and I want you in it."

He smirks. "I'll just stick with 'I love you', eh?"

To her surprise and delight, he suddenly hoists her into the air, lifting her bodily using only the strength of his arms. For a second she thinks he's going to set her down on the half-wall, but instead he backs her up against it, lowering her slowly, holding her tightly against the length of his body. When her feet touch the ground again, he swivels them both around until his own back faces the wall and then hugs her back against his chest, one hand pressing against her pelvic bone, the other gliding up from her waist to pause between her breasts.

"I love you, Buffy," he whispers, nuzzling her neck with his lips. He kisses and gently bites along the back of her throat, never breaking the skin, just setting all her sensitive nerves tingling. "I love you so much. I love that I can finally say this to you, and you'll never run away from me for saying it."

"Never ever," she promises, twisting in his arms so that she faces him again. She guides his hands back around her waist and continues attacking his clothes, plowing down the front buttons of his shirt and vest, desperate to feel the cool muscles beneath. When she finally succeeds in ripping the cummerbund away and lays her warm hands over his bare, defined stomach, Spike gives a purr-like moan and thrusts his fingers up into her hair, drawing her lips against his for a stronger, demanding kiss. Then, just as quickly, he yanks his hands away and yelps.

"Ow! Luv, somethin' in your hair bit my finger!"

"Pins! Willow's hair pins," she explains breathlessly, desperate to keep his mouth interlocked with hers. "Don't lose them, m'kay?"

"Right."

Cautiously this time, Spike's fingers comb adeptly through her golden tresses, extract each borrowed pin, set them on the nearby half-wall, and replace them with kisses along her scalp. Buffy untucks Spike's shirt from his tuxedo pants and then slips her fingers inside his waistband, feeling the soft, cool skin stretched taut over his hipbones. He groans raggedly, his body instinctively arching at her touch.

"Oh, Buffy."

When his tongue presses at her lips again, she opens her mouth to him, slipping her own tongue against his at the earliest opportunity. He still tastes of chocolate, rich and smooth and sweet, just a twinge of iron-flavored blood as well. She gulps him in, savoring him, making him moan in pleasure.

"My wife . . . my . . . beautiful . . . Buffy . . ."

Starting very cautiously and gently, he grinds his hips against her, his hands skimming slowly up and down the sides of her wedding gown from waist to thighs, making no effort thus far to remove it.

"Too many clothes," she protests into his lips, earning a chuckle.

"I only get to take your wedding dress off you once, Mrs. Summers, and I'm relishing it as long as I can . . ."

Compromising slightly, he lifts his hands up to her shoulders and guides the thin strap-like sleeves down over her deltoid muscles, his fingertips caressing the shape of her collarbone above the curves of her chest.

"Spike, I'm not made of glass," she mutters, impatience winning over romance again. "You know what I like."

"Not rough tonight, baby, please," he breathes, lips skimming slowly across her cheek. "Let me worship you."

"Can worship include screaming in pleasure?"

He gives a laughing, playful growl. "Maybe."

He is kissing her ear again, gently sucking on her lobe. Experimenting, he rolls her two accessible stub earrings around in his mouth and is quickly rewarded with her gasps and moans as he toys with this hidden pleasure point.

"Yes, yes, Spike . . . William . . ."

"Need the bed," he gasps, and she hears the throbbing in his voice, matching his body's obvious yearning for her. He scoops her up – her legs tight around his waist – and strolls across the candle-lit room like a conqueror. Still impeccably gentle, he lays her down on her back and then stands over her majestically, divesting himself of shirt and silk vest in one fluid roll of his shoulders. Naked from the waist up, he kneels at the edge of the bed to remove her white, shallow-heeled sandals, kissing the soles of her feet and sending violent tingles of pleasure up her legs.

"Oh . . . oh, Spike . . . I love you," she whispers, aching for him. "Please . . ."

"I love you, Buffy," he purrs, another lick across her ankle nearly turning her vision red with desire. "So . . . much . . ."

"Spike . . ." is the only word coherent word she can utter now. Every other sound coming from her mouth is a mewl of longing, of desperation so powerful she wonders if this is what bloodlust feels like. She reaches for his hair and pulls him up toward her on the bed, but at the last second Spike flips them over so that he's flat on his back against the sheets, holding her above him so her dress isn't crushed.

She's already breathless as Spike's fingers skillfully undo the lacing on the back of her wedding gown, her own hands trembling at the clasp of his tuxedo pants. He pulls down layers of silk and satin until – just as she releases him – he finds the softest layer of all: her bare, warm skin. Then at last his hands roam free.

Finally united – husband and wife, vampire and Slayer, ice and fire – they spend the night soaring their way to Heaven and back . . .

The End.

* * *

**A/N: **If this ending isn't really how you imagined it, please don't be devastated. Everyone has their own semi-idyllic vision for how things could have played out in the Buffyverse, or even multiple versions. In this particular AU of mine, Spike's altered vampire state would allow him and Buffy to get busy making little Spikes. ;) But that is another story for another day.

Please consider voting on my poll (see my profile page, **AGriffinWriter**) to help determine audience interest in my next long Buffy projects. Right now I'll be continuing to work on _The Substitute Slayer_ and _Five Words or Less_, and then a _Hells Bells_ re-write, probably. Also, if it's not too much trouble, I'd love it if you'd R&R my Buffy one-shots that I'm really proud of: _Can I Spend the Night Alone?_ (Spike in 'Conversations with Dead People', might become a two-shot) and _Taste of Buffy_ (short angsty Spike POV during season 6). Thanks again for joining me for this Spuffy happily-ever-after! 3


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